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WHIRLWIND 


H. C. M. HARDINGE 



G.P. Putnam’s Sons 

RewYork & London 

tEJje 'S.mcktrtocktr J3ra*» 

1924 











Copyright, 1924 
by 

H. C. M. Hardinge 


; 

/ 



Mac^e in the United States of America 

MAR li *2,4 ©C1A777475 

'n6 { U ' iAASJL ^ V- 






WHIRLWIND 































WHIRLWIND 

i 

No. o, Lennox Gardens was (and probably still is) one 
of those residences which a house agent would describe 
as “possibly the most perfect mansion in this much 
sought after district.” 

Now house agents, being directly descended from 
George Washington, are incapable of telling a lie. Con¬ 
ceive a more moving spectacle than a house agent en¬ 
deavouring to tell a lie. 

But the owners of No. o themselves would not call 
their house “a mansion”; yet I feel certain that every 
house agent would. 

Let us, therefore, walk through the Square and form 
our own opinion concerning the truth of the matter. 

It is a cheery-looking house, and in this pleasant month 
of June (didn’t I say it was June? Well it is) every win¬ 
dow flaunts a box of gay flowers that throw their petals 
down on your head while you wait for your ring to be 
answered and then look as innocent as new-born lambs 
and say, “Oh, you don’t think we could do such a thing 
as that.” 

But, in truth, the house is neither to be let nor sold; 
and that is why Messrs. Lettem and Sellem have given us 


3 


4 


WHIRLWIND 


an order to view. To send their clients gaily off after a 
house that is not in the market is an engaging trick of 
this well-known firm, who then call their clerks and 
typists together and cry “Rejoice with us, for we have 
sent a fool on his errand.” 

As a matter of fact No. o has been the town house of 
the Dalisons of Fordcombe ever since Lennox Gardens 
came into being as a possible place to live in. In that 
house, in old days, much entertaining had taken place; 
entertaining, however, of a very special kind. There was 
ever a very pleasant and dignified air about the proceed¬ 
ings that gave distinction and grace to those gatherings. 

This may have been partly due to the fact that the 
Dalisons of Fordcombe were not only the heads of a 
very, very old family, but were also among the chief 
representatives of Roman Catholicism in England. 

The parties, in the good old days before the war, had 
certainly been of the stately order. Maybe a Cardinal 
in his scarlet robes, or a Bishop in his purple cassock, 
would attend. Thus, one found not only the sociability of 
a family party, where everybody knew everybody else, 
but also something of the atmosphere of a court. One 
does not associate a jazz band with a Cardinal, and there¬ 
fore no one looked for the first when the second might 
very likely appear. 

But nowadays Mr. Dalison (a widower and no longer 
young) preferred to live at Fordcombe; and the maiden 
sister who had kept house for him ever since the early 
death of his wife infinitely preferred the country; so we 
shall not be very wrong in concluding that they were two 
quiet home-loving people to whom the excitements of 
London town appealed in vain. 

There is. however, another, and the last member of 







WHIRLWIND 


5 


the family, who claims mention, and she is a very im¬ 
portant person, indeed. This person is Kate Dalison, 
Mr. Dalison’s only child. 

Miss Katie was nineteen, and young ladies of ninteen 
—let them be even as charming as Katie—occasionally 
clamour for something more exciting than hunting and 
tennis and the other distractions of the countryside. So 
Margaret had come to Lennox Gardens and Ralph had 
come too (not so much from any desire to revisit Lon¬ 
don, but because he hated to be left behind), and Katie 
had been “presented” and her other aunt—her mother’s 
sister—the great Duchess of Hampshire—that arbiter of 
the social aspirant’s fate, had even given a dance for her, 
one of those small but oh, so terribly exclusive dances 
the outsider never hears of, and the papers only mention 
with bated breath. 

The Duchess had no daughters of her own, and Katie 
found favour in her eyes. The child was attractive and 
successful and an heiress—three distinct passports to 
her Grace’s interest. The Duchess offered to take her 
niece under her wing and do the right thing by her. 

So Katie had departed to Grosvenor Square and Mar¬ 
garet and Ralph were free to return to Fordcombe. 

But we have been kept waiting a very long time on the 
doorstep! and in the end the servant tells us the house 
is not to let. Instantly we are consumed with conviction 
that it is the one and only house in all London that would 
suit us. 

Did we not catch a glimpse of a nice wide stair and a 
roomy, square hall, things we have always longed to 
possess and never have? 

But I can describe the house accurately, for—since 
that day—Margaret and I have become good friends; 


6 


WHIRLWIND 


and she it was who told me a good many of the events 
in this history. 

Had we got inside, and gone up the stairs, we should 
have heard two ladies talking in a little room on the 
right, and had we the rudeness to look in we should have 
seen Margaret herself; and talking to her (therefore back 
to us) another lady, who had dropped in to have “a word 
or two” with Margaret. 

From the expression on Miss Dalison’s face it would 
appear the “word or two” had already been spoken and 
had produced a somewhat disturbing effect. 

Margaret’s gentle face wore the look of one striving 
to solve a riddle, probably a simple catch that yet refused 
to be caught; while from the aspect of the visitor’s back, 
from the osprey in her toque, and from the toque to 
the waist, she was quite clearly one of those who, 
having propounded a problem, insisted on an expla¬ 
nation. 

Whether I am wrong in repeating a conversation that 
Margaret told me in confidence, I leave to your decision. 
I should certainly hate to have my own conversation 
thrown broadcast on the world; but if everybody did to 
others as they would be done by what a very dull world 
it would be, wouldn’t it? Then, as a matter of fact, my 
conversations are seldom fit for repetition. 

So far as I recollect, the talk that Margaret repeated to 
me must have been somewhat of this nature. 

“Really, dear Augusta, now you ask me I’m afraid I 
don’t know very much about the young man. But he’s 
a charming boy, and I’m told popular. Desmond An- 
trobus asked me to be kind to him.” 

This last sentence had been an after-thought, and was 
meant to imply that Desmond Antrobus’s voucher for 




WHIRLWIND 


7 


anyone should be ample guarantee for that person’s 
social salvation. 

Margaret Dalison, anyway, thought so; and she de¬ 
voutly hoped ‘ dear Augusta” would let the matter drop. 
But, though the wish was father to the thought, it was 
not even step-father to the hope that died promptly, sur¬ 
viving by some two seconds. 

Augusta sniffed—audibly—she could not deny that 
an introduction from Antrobus covered all that was 
needed in the way of guarantee. It might, however—by 
one of those unfortunate oversights so common in these 
latter days, alas!—also cover a multitude of sins. By 
which Lady Alaburton did not mean those obvious sins 
so conveniently catalogued by the decalogue, but those 
far more important, unwritten crimes condemned by 
society. 

I have said that Augusta had sniffed. It was an elo¬ 
quent sniff, speaking louder than words. Margaret re¬ 
plied by repeating her original defence that “Desmond 
Antrobus had asked her to be kind to the boy.” To re¬ 
peat herself so soon was a certain sign of weakness, but 
Margaret settled in her dug-out because she felt her 
friend disapproved of something she had done. What 
that “something” might be she was totally unable to 
imagine, and the knowledge that Augusta Alaburton 
would be sure to enlighten her ignorance was no con¬ 
solation. Augusta’s methods of bringing light to bear 
on any darkness were singularly efficient, but often 
extremely drastic. They were so in the present case. 
Without uttering a syllable, but merely by means of 
a sniff, she had managed to convey a whole library of 
reproof. 

Of course reproof can be, and very often is, thor- 


8 


WHIRLWIND 


oughly deserved. But who takes kindly to the dose ad¬ 
ministered firmly and at his own fireside ? 

But for once Augusta proved more merciful than was 
her wont. Perhaps she felt the uselessness of argument. 
Margaret would be sure to go her own way, if she thought 
by doing so she could be kind, and then maybe the rest¬ 
fulness of the little room and the gentle personality of the 
hostess gave the other lady pause. No one could be 
very insistent—much less aggressive—with Margaret 
for long. 

When any of her old cronies thought Miss Dalison 
was doing something “not very wise,” and that was 
pretty often, she went to that charitable lady and began 
with exhortations but always ended with prayers. Mar¬ 
garet preferred to make a mistake and do a kindness to 
avoiding risk by not giving a helping hand. It was a 
pity should the recipient turn out worthless, but till she 
had proof she continued to help; and strangely enough 
she was more often right than wrong. 

At this time, Margaret must have been somewhere 
about forty. She had a very graceful, youthful figure 
and the face itself was scarcely middle-aged, but too set, 
too serene, too lacking in expectancy to have been a 
really young face. So I think she must have been a 
little older than she appeared—in which case it might 
be better to leave well alone and not inquire further. 

I have heard her described as “very sweet.” Usually 
the praise that damns. But I think in Margaret’s case 
the word is not misapplied; and of course there is a 
great difference between being “sweet” and being “sug¬ 
ary.” It is not the sugar’s fault that treacle is some¬ 
what sickly. 

A little ideal in her outlook, expectant of the highest 


WHIRLWIND 


9 


in the men and women of her world, but (inasmuch as 
she was herself of the world) Margaret looked for no 
impossible attainments in others. 

Perhaps scarcely of her day? Maybe, yet she was not 
old-fashioned. Almost, it would seem, she lived in the 
present with the memory of some gracious past; and 
with this thought she was wont to sprinkle the ordinary 
quiet days of her life, thus endowing them with a charm 
and a courtesy very delightful and refreshing to meet. 

She was like a white pillar rising slenderly in a wilder¬ 
ness, all that remained of some ancient cathedral. Ex¬ 
quisitely carved and chiselled, a masterpiece of design, 
still lifting up to heaven, still gleaming spotless, still in¬ 
dicative of something fine. Indestructible, unassailable, 
though the roof had fallen and wild animals went where 
once the priest had trod, and even the form of the old 
edifice, with the creed it stood for, be lost and irretriev¬ 
ably forgotten. 

One who knew her well, one whom she had helped and 
comforted, whom the world condemned but she forgave, 
said Margaret Dalison was like a fountain of pure water, 
upspringing in a thirsty land that lay barren of trees, 
naked to the sun. 

But the woman who sat in the big armchair close by 
could never be likened to anything so calm as a slender 
pillar or so refreshing as sweet waters in the desert. An 
up-to-date American hotel or the Falls of Niagara were 
more eloquent of her. She was vividly of the world and 
the world’s ways, and never could she fathom the guile¬ 
less, unsophisticated ways of Margaret. Even now she 
sat perplexed and bewildered at the unworldliness re¬ 
vealed by a chaperon who was “kind” to a young fellow 
before she had found out all about him. 


10 


WHIRLWIND 


“You seem to have wandered out of your century, 
Margaret! You should have lived along with Saint 
Elizabeth, whose lovers turned into roses.” 

Margaret laughed. “I think you mean whose loaves 
turned into roses when her husband met her on her way 
to feed the poor.” 

“Of course,” murmured Lady Alaburton. “How 
stupid of me.” 

It was annoying! Augusta was a recent convert to 
Roman Catholicism and but scantily posted in the his¬ 
tories of that Church’s many saints. But it was 
especially tiresome to have betrayed her ignorance to a 
Dalison. They were—as the rather bewildered lady some¬ 
times acknowledged in frank if rather despondent moods 
—“real Catholics.” It was their boast that even in the 
days of persecution it had never occurred to them to fol¬ 
low any other creed. 

Their home had been confiscated by Henry Tudor, to 
be restored to them by Mary. Lost to them again in 
Cromwell’s time, it had been given back by Charles, for 
once just to a family that had yielded pretty well all it 
had to him and his. 

And what a wonderful home is rambling old Ford- 
combe to this very day! Both by reason of its beautiful, 
unspoilt old age, its varied history and, not least of all, its 
gracious setting in woods and gardens. Such a dignity 
is there, such an aloofness from the glorified suburban 
mansion of the merely rich. 

And the Dalisons had served their time in the state 
as well as in the field. If the banners and armour at 
Fordcombe spoke of ancient battles, the portraits 
told of Governors and Judges, Bishops and Cardinals, 
of great learning and authority. Then in our own 


WHIRLWIND 


ii 


times, had not the heir of the house fallen gallantly in 
France? 

“Well,” said Lady Alaburton, following a train of 
thought that had commenced with Saint Elizabeth, “after 
all, loaves are more useful to hungry people than roses, 
and anyway, it was very wrong of her to deceive her hus¬ 
band,” she added by way of brilliant after-thought. 

“We must remember the kind of man her husband 
was.” 

“Yes, some men can’t be managed by simple truth.” 

This was not exactly what Margaret had meant, but 
she let it pass. 

“Now this young man,” continued Lady Alaburton, 
who in her heart much preferred a highly presentable 
modern youth to any dead saint, however holy, “this 
boy, Aylmer Forsyth, don’t you really know anything 
about him?” 

“Well, dear, I’ve told you who his sponsor was. Des¬ 
mond met him on the rink at Miirren—we were all at the 
same hotel, you know. He asked me to be kind, so when 
we got home I asked one or two people to send him cards 
for their parties. He’s very popular.” 

“Oh, yes, he’s asked about. That sort of young man 
always is—more’s the pity.” 

Augusta sighed. She had only lately married off the 
last of three daughters, and knew the inexplicable talent 
young girls possess for falling in love with good-looking 
but ineligible young men. Violet, her youngest and 
prettiest child, had developed a positive genius for it. 

“Of course, Sir Desmond is, well—Sir Desmond, but 
why is his secretary to be—oh, my dear Margaret,” cried 
Augusta, taking her fence with a rush, “how can you let 
him be so much with Katie?” 


12 


WHIRLWIND 


She had leapt and landed safely. The fox and the 
hounds, however, were well ahead, and she girded up her 
loins to pursue and overtake. 

“But, my dear Augusta. Katie and Aylmer! they’ve 
known each other for ages. What do you mean?” 

“What does one mean when one discusses a boy and a 
girl and asks questions about the youth? And as to 
knowing each other for ages, they can only have met 
about a year ago, or at the most two. That makes the 
present so dangerous; they get used to each other after 
that,” said Augusta, full of reminiscences as to the evil 
ways of Violet. 

“But Katie’s a mere child.” 

“This is her second season—that ages any girl and 
doesn’t explain the young man either. And really he does 
require explaining. Good-looking and charming? Yes, 
I know. It’s just that wants an explanation. Why is 

he?” ■ ;>1 

Lady Alaburton spoke as though good looks in a no¬ 
body were a sin. Perhaps they are in that code referred 
to at the beginning of the chapter. You must ask her 
ladyship, who is a most erudite Lord Chief Justice on 
such matters. 

“Were he plain and uninteresting he would of course 
be negligible,” she continued. “Why women ask that 
sort of young man to their balls I can’t think. They 
dance much too well.” 

The lady it seemed regarded balls as places where girls 
might get to know the right sort of man; the dancing 
was quite a secondary consideration, and young men, 
whose only recommendation was their nimble toes, of 
no consideration whatever. 

“Who in the world is he?” she asked. 


WHIRLWIND 


13 


Margaret gave the cushion at her back a pat. For the 
life of her she could find no answer. And what did she 
care either ? If Augusta wanted to probe into the status 
of an old friend’s protege, why not go to that old friend 
himself? 

“He is Desmond’s private secretary,” she murmured 
by way of hint. 

“Anyone might be Desmond Antrobus’s private sec¬ 
retary,” answered her ladyship with another sniff, which 
had almost degenerated to a snort. 

“Oh, not quite anyone, I think. He must have brains, 
initiative, and be a gentleman.” 

“Exactly; and usually the most gentlemanly young 
men prove to be nobodies. I suppose they have a better 
education.” 

“I daresay you’re right. You ought to know. You 
go about much more than I do.” 

“I had to,” sighed Augusta with resignation. “Three 
girls, you know, but they’re all gone now,” she finished up 
cheerily. Do not imagine her three offsprings were dead. 
She meant to say that (entirely owing to her own super¬ 
human efforts) the three young ladies were now as 
happily married as three sisters could expect to be. She 
was fond of her daughters, but she infinitely preferred 
them married to single. 

“You, you lucky creature, never married.” 

And then Lady Alaburton remembered that the reason 
why Margaret Dalison still remained Margaret Dalison 
was generally said to be because Desmond had never 
asked her to become Lady Antrobus. 

How correct this gossip might be no one knew. The 
rumour had grown, as rumours do, till it had become a 
kind of institution and an article of faith. Certainly a 


14 


WHIRLWIND 


great friendship existed between the two. Antrobus con¬ 
sulted Margaret constantly and paid her the compliment 
of acting upon her advice. They corresponded and met 
frequently. What wonder if all their world had long 
expected to hear their engagement announced ? 

But society found itself still waiting. The difference 
in religion might at one time have been an obstacle. But 
then neither Margaret nor Desmond were very young 
any longer, and as to religious differences, any such little 
difficulty could easily be got over nowadays. 

Antrobus was now about forty-five, and the friends 
had been intimate ever since their first meeting, some fif¬ 
teen years ago. Then he was wild with ambition and 
making his first bid as a Parliamentary candidate. Mar¬ 
garet had been one of his most ardent canvassers, and 
during the nerve-shattering election fight she had given 
him all the enthusiasm and hope at her command and had 
prophesied for him the great things which had since been 
fulfilled. 

A softer look came into her face even as she thought 
and spoke of Antrobus and recalled the almost boyish 
eagerness of the man when he had sought her good offices 
for his protege. 

“Boys want such a lot of kindness shown them, if 
people only knew; and they’re so grateful.” 

So she had extended a helping hand to Aylmer. He 
was a singularly gallant lad and had soon found his way 
into her good graces. 

A few months after the first meeting at Murren An¬ 
trobus had made Aylmer his private secretary, and after 
that it was natural the youth should be much at Ford- 
combe, and time had but confirmed the excellent impres¬ 
sion made in the beginning. 


WHIRLWIND 


15 


To women like Margaret youth has an irresistible 
appeal. It is the joyous expectancy of all good luck, the 
delightfully frank assertion of only one presence—that 
of an eternally good time, the impossible claim for com¬ 
plete immunity from all pain and sorrow—and for all 
happiness as its birthright, that proves so winning. 

But Margaret s thoughts had flown to where many 
delightful things happened in a setting all sunshine and 
roses. It was the most harmless of meanderings; just a 
stroll into a promised land—or might we say a peep 
through some fine old gate at a pleasant garden?—and 
then a gentle opening and a delicate soft entrance, fol¬ 
lowed by a swift but not ignominious retreat. 

“Why do you mention Aylmer and Katie together, Au¬ 
gusta?” she said, recalling herself to her surroundings. 

“Well, you see, they were both at the Lancings’ ball 
last night. You know, she was a Vere de Vere, and he 
made jute, or something people used in the war. Enor¬ 
mously rich.” 

“I know the Vere de Veres, of course. Which of them 
is Mrs. Lancing?” 

“Mrs. Harry Lancing, Margaret. These new people 
always put a Christian name in front. I suppose it’s to 
make one feel there may be a respectable head of the 
family somewhere.” Lady Alaburton had got fairly 
launched now, and on a sea she knew by heart. 

“I don’t know all Katie’s friends. Isobel is taking her 
out, as you know.” 

“Well—hasn’t she said anything?” 

“No.” 

“Mark my words, she will. Either the young man 
will have to explain himself or he’ll be shown the door. I 
expect he’ll be shown the door.” 


i6 


WHIRLWIND 


“My dear, I hope not. But—there can be nothing 
serious. He’s not a Catholic, to begin with.” . 

“Exactly, and a nobody to go on with, and I imagine a 
pauper to finish up with.” 

“He has a charming little cottage near us,” Margaret 
began, with the heartiest wish to say something kind. 
But Augusta nearly exploded with horror. 

“A cottage! At Fordcombe! What sort of cottage? 
she asked, breaking suddenly into a calmer voice, visions 
of certain elaborate edifices that aped humility under the 
name of “cottage” rising to her mental vision. There 
are cottages—and cottages. Lena Arkwright’s is charm¬ 
ing. They think it was once a manor house, because 
there’s an old baronial hall they use as a general sitting- 
room. Not many bedrooms—that’s why it’s a cottage— 
but Lena talks of adding a new wing; but building’s so 
expensive, and she’s just put in electric light and central 
heating. She’s making the gardens out of an old orchard 

_charming. The butler’s cottage is quite handy, and the 

chauffeur has a flat over the garage.” 

“I’m afraid Aylmer’s isn’t that sort of cottage at all,” 
Margaret cut in when Augusta’s flow failed somewhat. 
“It’s a real cottage, built in fourteen hundred and some¬ 
thing. There is an old barn communicating and that 
makes a charming room. He has a dear little garden full 
of sweet-smelling flowers. I don’t think even our roses 
smell as good as his.” 

Lady Alaburton held a moment’s eloquent silence be¬ 
fore replying in scathing tones. “From your description 
I imagine the future Mrs. Forsyth will have to live on 
smells. I gather it will be roses in summer and cooking 
in winter.” 

What further argument she might have harangued on j 



WHIRLWIND 


1 7 


the subject of young Forsyth and the pretty niece the 
writer of this strictly accurate chronicle knoweth not, 
for at the moment the door was opened to a visitor and 
the discussion came to an abrupt end. 

The new arrival was a distinguished Prelate of the 
Roman Church. One met them at the Dalisons; charm¬ 
ing, courteous, well-bred men of the world, who to Au¬ 
gusta Alaburton were surrounded with an atmosphere of 
almost mediaeval authority. 

When Monsignor gave her his pleasant smile and 
greeting she distinctly felt a flattering sense of her 
own importance. Here was a Prince of her own Church, 
one of great authority, whose influence at Rome was 
paramount, whom it was an honour and privilege to meet. 
Yet the old doctrine of intrigue, inseparable from the 
Protestants’ thoughts of Rome, sometimes came back on 
her; and then she would remember that vested in this 
kindly personage was the power to hurl all manner of 
cursings at her head. Of course, Monsignor was in¬ 
capable of so grossly underbred an act to a woman 
of her position, but she believed he could do it if he 
chose, and the knowledge gave Augusta little thrills. 
Altogether there was something much more efficient 
about it than anything the Church of England could 
show. 

But naturally Margaret felt nothing of this. She 
greeted the Churchman as she might anyone else; but 
Lady Alaburton had on Monsignor’s entrance instantly 
changed her whole expression to one of such cathedral¬ 
like solemnity as to suggest the lady’s falling on her knees 
and making her instant confession. 

Yet she really loved her new religion. To her it was 
quite the most fascinating thing in the world. She had 


i8 


WHIRLWIND 


not begun to understand it, and therefore she was for 
ever finding some fresh diversion therein. 

She groped and groped in it, much as she would grope 
in a lucky bag at a bazaar, and the things she fished up 
were often a surprise, sometimes a delight, and usually 
terribly puzzling. 

One of her old friends had said, “Augusta treats her 
new religion as she might a good cook—she patronises 
each, yet goes in fear of both.” 

This cynical remark was not true. In spite of all ap¬ 
pearances she did not patronise her creed. On the con¬ 
trary, in her secret soul she sometimes doubted whether 
the prelates and great laity of the Roman Church in Eng¬ 
land took her quite seriously. 

Even Margaret had only congratulated her quietly “on 
finding safety”; no one else had paid the slightest atten¬ 
tion to her conversion, and the thought did occasionally 
protrude itself that her new co-religionists were a little 
wanting in cordiality. Surely a fatted calf of some kind 
should have graced the occasion! 

Even now there was something lacking. She could 
not feel the same link connected her with Monsignor and 
Margaret that so obviously united them. She was with 
them, but not of them. On the occasions—very rare, I 
am afraid—when she indulged in heart-to-heart talks with 
what she called her “soul” she would confess, “It is just 
as if they had been born in the best set and I had merely 
pushed my way in.” 

After a few moments she rose and took her departure 
on a round of card-leaving at many houses. She was a 
woman who loved her London, a woman to whom society 
came before everything except her religion. Some people 
said it was a dead heat between the two, others that the 


WHIRLWIND 


19 

Church only won by a neck because society was somewhat 
winded. 

There are people who put in a claim to God, as a sort 
of insurance agent, for their lost youth. And some 
change their religion under the impression the Almighty 
prefers that particular brand, and will, if they embrace it, 
immediately concede them some special favour. 

And when everything goes on just as before they rack 
their brains to discover what means they can take to per¬ 
suade the Omnipotent to regard them seriously and grant 
them those things they so strongly desire. 


II 


Down in the west of Sussex, in the land between the 
hills, there you will find Fordcombe. 

It is but a little hamlet, very easily overlooked. But 
if you keep by the slow-flowing river you may by chance 
light upon it where it sleeps tucked away in the woods and 
downs. 

The few cottages and farms are set here and there just 
where they will look their best. Old cottages with tiled 
or thatched roofs, lattice windows, gay gardens, bee-hives 
and flagged paths, and they gather together in twos or 
threes, some down by the river, others up on the hill by 
the church, while one or two stay in between as though 
uncertain which group to join. 

Up by the church is the Manor House, where for seven 
hundred years the Dalisons have lived. Not a large place, 
but unique in its way, full of tradition, of fine old por¬ 
traits, furnishings, carvings in wood and stone, of the 
smell of lavender, pot-pourri, ashes of wood fires. 

The station is about two miles away, and they who 
know their Fordcombe are ever in expectation of the last 
turn in the road, for here is the great stone bridge, long, 
narrow, irregular, with many sharp-angled refuges, built 
in leisurely days by unhurried monks, and as sound to¬ 
day as in the hour of its completion. 

From here we catch the shrill call of the peacocks in 
the high old manor gardens, or hear the cry of rooks in 


20 


WHIRLWIND 


21 


the elms, and in winter, when the leaves are off the trees, 
get a glimpse of the old red chimney-stacks. 

Cross the bridge, climb the hill slowly, leaving the road 
to Timbleworth, but going up under the sheltering trees 
to the right, and very soon—in fact directly you leave 
the green tunnel of the branches—the little church and the 
gate to the house stand before you. 

The road continues, dips a hill to lose its way in the 
woods, first, however, passing once more by the river as 
though in final farewell. Out this way is another bridge, 
an old wooden affair, unsafe and unused now, and close 
by stands Aylmer Forsyth’s cottage. 

It was ever a delight to Antrobus to wander through 
Fordcombe woods or paddle up the reaches of the river 
and if the Dalisons were not at home he would run down 
to the cottage or put up with Fell, an old college chum 
with whom he had ever been in touch, and who now lived 
at Timbleworth and doctored that healthy spot as well as 
ministering to Fordcombe. 

It had not been his original intention to enter on a 
career of finance. In early youth he had hoped to make a 
career in literature. He had a fine taste and still delighted 
in the company of men of letters. So he had laughed at 
a good banking account, under-rated the talents he really 
possessed, sneered at family influence, and set out to win 
his way along the road he chose to go. 

But faith is not talent, and talent is far removed from 
genius. Yet Desmond had genius in abundance; but the 
kind of genius he possessed he had no desire to acknow¬ 
ledge. Accordingly that lady raised not a finger to stay 
him, but let him blunder along as best he could, while she 
sat with folded hands as patient as any Penelope, waiting 
the day and the hour when her prodigal should return. 



22 


WHIRLWIND 


Of course, he had failed. The quick, cheap successes 
he regarded as stepping-stones to greater things were but 
the delusive sprites that often lead mediocrity on to aban¬ 
don him at last in a slough of stagnation. Better a colos¬ 
sal failure and a fresh start than a good start with noth¬ 
ing at the end. 

And Desmond might have lived to know gradual dis¬ 
illusionment had no certain “things” happened that 
speedily disrupted his dream but brought forth a strength 
he had been but dimly aware of, and an ambition that 
gripped him till he fell trembling and bleeding at the feet 
of that deity who had waited with folded hands till her 
well-beloved son should return. 

Then did Genius arise and comfort him, take him to 
her heart, show him the way to go, nor did she think to 
quit when possessing friends, position, undreamed suc¬ 
cess, all the world could give, he lay in his young secre¬ 
tary’s garden, glad and happy to be once more in the quiet 
countryside. 

And the “things” that had happened? The whys and 
the wherefores of all this change? They shall be narrated 
in due course, but this is neither the time nor the place. 
Sufficient that destiny will out, and be man as obstinate as 
any Antrobus “things” will always happen, some day and 
somehow, to force him back to where that destiny is 
waiting. 

But now that most perfect time of special peace, when 
they who toiled all day relish the virtue of work well done, 
while they who neither toiled nor spun feel just as com¬ 
fortably tired as though they had. 

And just at that moment, when the sun shining, the 
garden smiling, and the world shouting with happiness, 
a pleasant-looking young fellow came out of the little 


WHIRLWIND 


23 


wood in time to see the housekeeper arranging the tea- 
things on the lawn. 

If he had a pleasant appearance, he had also a sing¬ 
ularly charming voice, the sort of voice that made people 
smile when they heard it and—as you have probably 
guessed—he was that same youth who so perturbed 
Augusta and against whom she had so strenuously 
warned Margaret. 

Possibly, from a chaperon’s point of view, she had 
reason. Young Forsyth’s hair and eyes were dangerous. 
I’m not sure his skin was quite safe. But there could be 
no doubt whatever about his charm. You couldn’t get 
away from it and Augusta considered charm in a person 
like Aylmer was a snare. 

“Lots of letters for you, as usual,” said this interest¬ 
ing young man, “and by good luck two for me.” 

“Thanks, Aylmer, and how’s our lady of the Post Of¬ 
fice?” 

“Oh, well, I had to knock and knock before anything 
happened. Then at last she put her head out of the upper 
window and explained she had ‘an ’eadache and was ly¬ 
ing down.’ Then I bought some stamps. One never asks 
Mrs. Corner for two things at once. Of course, she put 
her customary query, ‘How many do you require, sir ?’ as 
though they were so many yards of ribbon. When I told 
her two dozen twopenny ones, and one dozen penny ones, 
she wrote it down on a scrap of paper and disappeared 
upstairs.” 

Mrs. Corner and the village shop were one! 

Perhaps “shop” is somewhat of a misnomer. It would 
be more correct to say she lived in a cottage and sold 
things over a little counter. Her abode stood well back 
from the road, and at right angles thereto, giving it the 


24 


WHIRLWIND 


cold shoulder, as it were, in the way of a blank wall. 
Now, as the ivy that threatened in time to cover her win¬ 
dow had already submerged the lower part of the cot¬ 
tage, it took a Columbus’s turn of mind to discover the 
little slit through which letters (nominally posted) really 
fell on Mrs. Corner’s parlour floor. 

But none of these things troubled the good lady. Did 
not all the world know of her and her cottage, that she 
sold stamps and the cheaper kind of money orders, midst 
her lollipops and fly-papers? So if any stranger failed to 
discover this Selfridge’s of Fordcombe he really had only 
himself to blame. 

Antrobus soon skimmed through his letters. 

“You’ll have to answer them for me,” he said to Ayl¬ 
mer. 

Then the two men sat awhile in that companionable 
silence that is so pleasant between friends. The relations 
between these two were at once cordial and understand¬ 
ing. And combined with this most pleasant familiarity 
was the pride a young fellow of Aylmer’s age must feel 
in the friendship given so generously by an elder in the 
position of his employer. 

And, indeed, it was in the light of a parent that Antro¬ 
bus frequently found himself regarding his young secre¬ 
tary. It pleased him to do those things for Aylmer that 
he would have done for his own boy; often and often 
he would think it would be worth while giving up a good 
deal of his hard-won gains could he (in exchange) claim 
such a clean-minded, unspoilt young fellow for his son. 
But what could there be—at first sight—between them? 
Antrobus, big with business, Member of Parliament; and 
Aylmer, merely a bright, ambitious youngster. 

Desmond knew that Aylmer was fatherless. From 


WHIRLWIND 


H 

time to time the lad had given Antrobus some insight 
regarding his early life. 

The father had evidently been one of those fascinating 
scoundrels who are only delightful outside their homes. 
A bad and cruel husband, his death after a short married 
life, had been a merciful release to Mrs. Forsyth. That 
mother—a delicate invalid who lived abroad in Southern 
Europe, and whom her son simply idolised—seemed to be 
Aylmer’s only living relative. 

The wonderful love that bound the rather lonely mother 
and the clever son, seemed very beautiful to Desmond. 
He often speculated as to what manner of woman she 
might be. That she was something quite unusual he was 
certain. He thought he understood her and pictured her 
still beautiful, very charming, intelligent; not one readily 
to make friends, but once she had accepted your friend¬ 
ship a trustful, interesting, delightful companion. Some 
day he must make her acquaintance. 

And Margaret Dalison was drawn in just the same 
way. She, the woman whose girlhood was left behind; 
and he, the middle-aged man of the world—both recog¬ 
nised the oneness of this mother and son as something 
exquisite and pure, and what neither of them could ever 
know. 

I think, perhaps, Antrobus held this knowledge some¬ 
what more keenly than Margaret. If every woman is a 
potential mother of children, every man is a potential 
creator of them. The creative instinct is born in all men. 
The conservator is born in all women. 

However, Margaret had known something of parent¬ 
age in her relations with her niece. She had tended the 
child with all the love, all the pent up, smothered mother¬ 
hood within her; and often had Desmond envied her. 


26 


WHIRLWIND 


But Margaret could have told him that great as 
had been her devotion, admirably as she had fulfilled her 
duty, magnificently as she had loved and lived, down in 
the depths of her heart was a voice crying no earthly 
voice had answered; and a hunger no earthly food had 
satisfied. 

But she was an exceedingly happy woman, grateful for 
all the good that was hers. She showed her gratitude 
too, and in the most practical way, by using freely, and 
well, all these same good things; and only now and again 
the voice in her heart made itself heard and the hunger 
cried out to be appeased. 

But we are getting far too sentimental and this is not 
going to be a sentimental story at all. 

It all seems to have come at once. But when you have 
to take a dose of nasty medicine it is no good putting off 
the operation; and of all unpleasant things, love is the 
most exasperating. Every man in love feels something 
of a fool. Maybe, woman does also, but she has the com¬ 
pensation of feeling slightly improper as well; whereas 
a man feels so good as to be miserably uncomfortable. 
Let us therefore get over our love affairs quickly and 
proceed to more exciting adventures. Only first I will 
ask you to realise very fully there is nothing sloppy or 
sentimental in either Margaret or Desmond, and most 
emphatically not in that excellent young sportsman, Ayl¬ 
mer Forsyth. All three are ordinary, healthy, normal 
people whose lives happen to have fallen in pleasant places. 

While Aylmer, still very young, stood at the threshold 
of his life and sniffed the pleasant fragrance of this 
jolly-looking and amusing world, Antrobus had wan¬ 
dered up and down its valleys a good many years after the 
“things that happened” had forced him to show the real 


WHIRLWIND 


27 


stuff within him, and whatever the experience he had 
gone through might be, he certainly emerged a far finer 
character, more sympathetic, more patient of infirmity, 
and of infinitely greater understanding. 

But his own youth had gone down in the battle, nor 
was it till he and young Forsyth foregathered together 
that something of that lost inheritance came back to him. 

There was an odd kind of resemblance between them, 
a trick of manner of speech which one or two intimates 
had noticed. This pleased the elder while it flattered the 
younger, so their connection became less and less the rela¬ 
tionship of employer and secretary, and more and more 
that of an elder brother to one considerably younger. 

Desmond, sitting in the garden with his young host, 
felt more of real “home” than he remembered to have 
felt for years, and looking at Aylmer (absorbed in a long 
letter from the darling mother in Italy) he said to him¬ 
self that just such a son would he have chosen could he 
have had his way. 

“Your mother well, I hope?” he asked, more for the 
sake of hearing the boy speak than anything. 

“Quite well, thank you, sir. She’s staying at Parazzi 
with some friends. They seem to have a topping place 
there!” 

“Your mother must have many friends. I wonder if 
we have any in common.” 

“She’s so quaint with her friends. She makes them 
rather easily in one way—that’s her good nature—but no 
one seems to enter her life or be necessary to her.” 

Desmond had rather supposed this. He pictured her 
one of those sympathetic people who win the confidence 
of others readily because they never make real confi¬ 
dences themselves. 


28 


WHIRLWIND 


“You must meet her some day,” Aylmer concluded. 
“I want you to so much.” 

“Nothing I should like better. Perhaps when you go 
home again you will ask me to run out and visit you. 
She must be a very beautiful woman from what you say. 
But you haven’t any photograph?” 

Aylmer laughed a little before answering. It was a 
pleasant laugh, just the infectious, boyish laugh you would 
expect of him. He blushed a little, too, when he began 
apologising for what must look very like vanity on his 
mother’s part. 

“That’s her one conceit. She loves pretty clothes, and 
no woman ever looks better turned out. But she main¬ 
tains the moment a woman’s photographed she becomes 
a frump. And not even for me will she look dated. 
She’s often told me that she was never photographed in 
her life.” 

Antrobus smiled. Mrs. Forsyth was evidently a 
woman with vision. He thought of certain old photo¬ 
graphs in his own possession. There was a portrait of 
the lovely Mrs. Palliser. He had forgotten he possessed 
it, and at first could not recall whose likeness it was. 
Then he remembered, and the recollection had come as a 
shock! In what year of grace did people wear such 
clothes or possess a figure so quaintly shaped? He 
had begun to count the years and, counting, wondered 
how the lady did it! She was still a carefully young 
and perseveringly attractive woman! But how 
unmercifully the picture dated her, and, if she knew it 
was yet extant, what would she not give to destroy it 
utterly. 

Yes, Mrs. Forsyth was undoubtedly a wise, if perhaps 
a slightly vain woman, but if as lovely and charming as 


WHIRLWIND 


29 


her son described, some little vanity might surely be for¬ 
given her. 

“I lunched in Lennox Gardens before leaving town/’ 
Antrobus said later on, “Katie was there and looking re¬ 
markably pretty.” 

“Oh, was she?” Aylmer replied. The tone of his voice 
might have sounded a little dangerous to a woman’s ear 
—it was far too ostentatiously careless to be quite free 
from fraud. “I suppose she’ll be coming home when the 
Dalisons return,” he added. 

“After a while,” said Desmond. “But she’ll see the 
season out with her aunt, and after the summer she and 
the Duchess are going to Scotland, I believe.” 

“Oh! are they?” answered Aylmer, looking away into 
the distance, “and I suppose as she’s pretty and some¬ 
thing of an heiress, her people expect her to marry some¬ 
one who can give her all she’s got already?” 

“Her father will certainly look to her to marry in her 
own set, and, I imagine, in her own religion also. The 
Dalisons have seldom married out of it.” 

“There doesn’t seem such a terrible difference in the 
two creeds to me.” 

Antrobus took a quick look at the boy. For a moment 
he wondered lest there might be a deeper meaning under 
Aylmer’s questionings. But there was nothing in 
the lad’s face to give any ground for suspecting he 
felt more than that good comradeship towards 
Katie usually existing between the modern boy and 
girl. 

Desmond was glad. For though he knew his old 
friend would only desire his child’s happiness, still, when 
the time should come for Katie to marry, he would 
certainly look for the lucky man to be one of his own 


30 


WHIRLWIND 


faith, to bear some similar good name, and hold some¬ 
thing of his own tradition. 

But Aylmer was throwing crumbs at the pigeons 
crowding and strutting and posturing round the tea table, 
pretending to ignore the existence of such a vulgar thing, 
yet, all the while, missing none of those rich buttery mor¬ 
sels that fell from the tea tables in gardens at that season 
of the year. 


Ill 


Before we proceed any further with this veracious 
history, we must go back to No. o and see what happened 
there after Augusta had taken herself off on her little 
round of card-leaving. 

Margaret had many visitors. Old friends came to say 
good-bye, or to arrange for re-unions later at Fordcombe 
or elsewhere, thus it was a busy time for Margaret, and 
it was late before she found herself alone. 

Then Lady Alaburton’s warning regarding Katie’s in¬ 
timacy with young Forsyth returned to her. She would 
have dismissed the matter as one of “dear Augusta’s 
scares,” had not certain remarks of Monsignor given 
some colour to the possibility that—this time—Augusta 
had not been altogether mare’s nesting. 

The priest had called that afternoon with the special 
intention of dropping a hint, and—with the most exqui¬ 
site tact—had dropped it. Just a word of congratulation 
on the girl’s success, and the happy eventualities to be 
expected at some future date. Ample to set Margaret 
somewhat fearful lest the girl’s name should be too closely 
connected with someone whom their world would not 
consider quite a suitable match for the heiress of the 
Dalisons. 

When the girl herself looked in later on, Margaret’s 
first thought was how absurdly young the child looked 
to be an object of so much interest. But Katie’s was not 


31 


32 


WHIRLWIND 


the position of an ordinary girl. It was only natural the 
Roman world should be already speculating as to the 
ultimate fate of this child of nineteen. 

Margaret greeted her niece very tenderly, but found it 
quite impossible to say any of the things that she had 
thought it might be her duty to say lest she clouded “the 
child’s happiness.” 

The kind-hearted lady might have spared herself 
any anxiety on that head. It takes a good deal more 
than a gentle elder’s remonstrance to disturb the 
equanimity of a young lady aged nineteen, and Miss 
Kate possessed some singularly well-formed ideas on 
life, and very definite ones concerning her own in 
particular. 

But she was no objectionable, self-willed, and spoilt 
young thing. She adored her “Authorities” and she 
loved her home, too, and was full of directions regarding 
certain pets of hers which Margaret promised should be 
attended to. 

And so Margaret decided to say nothing. 

Even suppose the girl remained plain Miss Dalison all 
her life, her eventual position as “Miss Dalison of Ford- 
combe” would be one that many a married woman might 
envy. “It would have to be a very exceptional offer,” 
thought Margaret to herself, and then pulled herself up 
for being the worldly-minded old maid she most certainly 
was not. 

Maybe there came to her mind the remembrance of one 
who was not a good Catholic, but a very noble gentleman. 
Now if someone like Desmond—but younger and a 
Catholic—with the promise of a fine career and fully en¬ 
dowed, in short, with all the usual attributes of a fairy 
prince should happen along one day—say in two or three 


WHIRLWIND 


33 


years, not before, well, wouldn’t that be a dainty dish to 
set before Queen Kate? 

It is to be feared she was somewhat old-fashioned in 
her views. Permit me to remind you she was no longer 
very young, and that you will be a very clever woman if, 
at Margaret’s age, you are not getting a trifle old- 
fashioned yourself. 

Perhaps her very quiet, her amused observations of life, 
and her steady, fixed existence, lent her the charm that 
drew people so freely to her. For is it not a pleasant and 
a good thing to know a friend openly pleased at any 
chance that brings you together? Someone who is in no 
hurry to make off and greet a more interesting person¬ 
age than yourself who at that moment has just entered 
the room ? 

“And you’re having a really good time, dear?” 

“Splendid. Aunt Isobel’s awfully good. We’re going 
to heaps of parties.” 

“And have you any particular partners ? Anybody who 
dances better than the rest?” 

Margaret thought herself quite Machiavellian in her 
method of approaching a dangerous subject tactfully. 
Whether Katie saw through the “tact” or not, she 
made no sign, and, if any favourite partner was in 
her mind, it would have taken a much cleverer woman 
than this simple-minded aunt to have discovered 
him. 

“Jim Aldershot dances fairly decently, and he’s always 
pleasant. Then there’s Tony Chichester. But they’re 
all alike.” 

“I’m afraid, my dear, none of us is very original that 
I’m aware.” 

Margaret felt a great relief, and, in her innocence, con- 


WHIRLWIND 


34 

eluded there was no occasion to fear any unwelcome lover 
as yet. 

“Dear child! But I suppose, like all girls, you’ve some 
ideal? Now, haven’t you?” 

But Katie didn’t rise to the bait. She sat a little 
thoughtful and just a little puzzled to “catch on” as to 
what Aunt Margaret was driving at. 

“An ideal?” she murmured. “Oh, I don’t know. I 
don’t think about that sort of thing. How funny you 
are, auntie.” 

Yes! Very funny indeed, thought Katie; and won¬ 
dered whether the quiet Aunt Margaret had possessed— 
in the long-vanished past—some ideal of her own! 
Katie believed the girls of those dark ages were really 
romantic in their ideas about men. Yet surely her aunt 
must know that girls didn’t go about nowadays peripate¬ 
tic shrines of the ideal man? 

And that’s just where the elder lady failed in under¬ 
standing. Such an outlook as her niece’s was beyond 
her comprehension and would have seemed unnatural 
had it been explained to her. How should the world get 
on without romance ? People might say what they liked, 
but she knew better. 

Still, she did wonder a little at the callous outlook of 
modern youth, and could only guess how it had come 
about that things were so contrary to what she remem¬ 
bered in her own day. 

Then she recollected her brother could never at any 
time have been considered a romantic figure. He was 
just a pleasant, average country gentleman, and probably 
Katie took after him. 

Something of this she passed on to Ralph himself as 
they sat together after dinner that same evening. 


WHIRLWIND 


35 


“But, my dear/’ said Dalison. “Why should Katie be 
the sentimental young person you think she ought to be ? 
Boys and girls have no business to be anything except the 
healthy young animals they always remind me of. Like 
the lilies of the field they should just grow.” 

The Squire of Fordcombe was what flippant young 
things described as “a jolly old sport.” Pleasant-voiced, 
pleasant-mannered and pleasant-faced, his company, be 
it said in all kindness, was also pleasant without being in¬ 
toxicating. In fact an even pleasantness was his chief 
characteristic. He had others, such as humour, and a 
kindly disposition. But even these were only of the 
pleasant order. His kindness was of the easy-going, 
somewhat negative brand; while his humour was certainly 
never in the least unpleasant. 

He was fond of his comfort and that, alas, was mo¬ 
mentarily somewhat under eclipse. His pipe had gone 
out, as it always did after three puffs, and as usual on 
these occasions the matches were not at hand. He patted 
all his pockets, felt all over the chair, and looked vaguely 
down on the floor about him. Then his sister saw what 
was the matter and quietly handed them from the mantel¬ 
piece. Whereupon a great to-do of puffs and gasps, 
which exhibition always accompanied the lighting up of 
the squire’s pipe. 

“That’s their business,” said he between his struggles, 
“just to grow”—puff—“and”—gasp—“when they arrive 
at mature age”—puff—“they’ll have to begin to grow 
young again, like you and me and some other dowagers 
we know.” 

“My dear Ralph, what do you mean?” 

“I mean to refer you to people like Louisa Shoring 
and Mrs. St. Ubbs. They must be both nearly seventy, 


WHIRLWIND 


36 

yet every year they grow more miraculously young. 

“Poor things! I certainly hope I shall never be like 
them,” said Margaret, with the slightest suspicion of con¬ 
tempt in her voice. “But they are rather marvellous,” she 
added, not wishing to be harsh in her judgment. “No 
one would guess how old they really are. 

“Indeed no. In spite of all temptation to be what they 
are, they yet remain what they originally were, but only, 

I think, with a great expenditure of brute force. But 
about Katie. Why do you expect her to have any senti- 
ment at all ?” 

“Well, I don’t know,” Margaret mused, somewhat 
hazy how to express herself. “She’ll marry some day, I 
suppose.” 

“Good heavens! Marry!” 

Ralph sat suddenly upright. That is, he became as 
erect as an elderly gentleman may who is taken by com¬ 
plete surprise while reclining at his ease in an extremely 
roomy easy chair. 

The spectacles that had hitherto maintained a precari¬ 
ous balance at the end of his nose, now lost their equi¬ 
librium and fell, secretively, somewhere between the chair 
and the cushions; while his pipe, irritated to distraction 
at the fresh interruption, gave up the ghost sullenly. Like 
many fathers of one child, especially if that only one be 
a daughter, Dalison had never realised the fact that his 
child was growing up. As to such things as weddings and 
young men anxious to be given in marriage, the possi¬ 
bility of their happening in his household seemed per¬ 
fectly imbecile. 

In a way the good, easy gentleman regarded marriage 
as a kind of disease. You might catch it or you might 
not. There was no real danger in it—many people took 


WHIRLWIND 


37 


it and recovered—but on the whole it was just as well to 
take proper precautions against it. 

“Marry! Marry!” cried Ralph, as he retrieved his 
spectacles and picked up the review that he had been read¬ 
ing and that had seized with avidity at such a favourable 
moment to slide gracefully to the floor and crumple its 
pages. “Marry! Tut, tut! What next?” 

The Squire hated the thought of any change. Life had, 
perhaps, been too kind to him. He could honestly say 
that he knew of nothing, possessing which, he would be 
happier. 

He was perfectly content pottering about his old house 
and garden. He always found plenty to do—there were 
farms to inspect; the needs and comforts of the villagers 
to look after; all the many and various responsibilities of 
a country squire. He had, too, his shooting, and a little 
hunting. Not that he did much of either nowadays, and 
at no time had he been a very keen sportsman, but it had 
been expected of him and made an excuse to meet his 
friends and neighbours in a pleasant, leisurely way. 

Fordcombe was a clannish place. Many of the farmers 
had lived on their farms from generation to generation, 
some of them almost as long a time as the Dalisons up 
at the house. But though the common pursuit of all was 
a strong and uniting tie, the one that clinched them to¬ 
gether was the unity of creed. And this latter is a tie, 
the strength of which it is difficult to realise till we re¬ 
member the Roman Catholic in England always regards 
the Protestant as an usurper and is therefore always a 
little on the defensive. 

In Catholic eyes Fordcombe was a beacon that shone 
brightly and ever had shone; a light no persecution, no 
oppression had ever quite extinguished. Read the chroni- 




WHIRLWIND 


38 

cles, the country histories, and you will find that dimmed 
though the light may have been, utterly quenched it never 
was. Always it burned—maybe secretly—very privily 
and hidden, often in holes and corners as humble as must 
have been a distant manger of Bethlehem, but it burned. 
And now once again the old light shone forth upon the 
world. And, however you and I may disagree with the 
dwellers of Fordcombe as to the righteousness of their 
belief, we are forced to own there is a glamour about 
such places that goes far to justify the Catholic pride in 
them. Examples are they to be held up, memorials yet 
living to be honoured, shrines rescued from burning, 
snatched from destruction to be evermore revered and 
honourably tended. 

Such was Fordcombe, hedged about with tradition, 
guarded by pious hands, maintained by a spirit that had 
never changed. 

Perhaps a little stuffy the atmosphere? A little too 
redolent of feudalism? Somewhat overridden by the 
authority of Church and Squire? A trifle too reminiscent 
of those old days when Lords of the Manor could, and 
they would, chop off the heads of offending villagers and 
place them on their own gates as a warning as well as 
graceful ornamentation? Well, I dare say you are right. 
But remember there are very, very few such places left; 
and they are delightful to visit—for a few days. 


IV 


When Antrobus returned to town after his week-end 
at Fordcombe, he thought he had exchanged a good deal 
that was very worth while for a rather empty show. His 
big house in Hill Street looked more than usually gloomy; 
very opulent, but cheerless, and, as he went up his thickly- 
carpeted stairs the evening of his arrival, it seemed like 
a tomb: “Sacred to the memory of Disillusion, who de¬ 
parted this life a crusty old bachelor.” The next morn¬ 
ing, fortunately, he had appointments in the City, and 
interviews to be well weighed, and conversations to be 
rehearsed beforehand, so altogether he had scant time 
for introspection. 

One of those little clouds that so often overshadow 
the industrial situation of this hopeful world had loomed 
up suddenly and far too conspicuously to be pleasant, and 
Desmond’s Parliamentary Secretary, bursting with im¬ 
portance and rumours of cabinet and lesser crises, was 
loudly demanding a spare half hour. 

So Antrobus had much to occupy him, for of all slave- 
driven folk the financial magnate is most in bonds. That 
the slavery is self-imposed makes it no easier to bear. 

In these latter years Desmond was a self-constituted 
slave. There was no necessity for this grind. He had 
all the wealth he could use, and the House had proved a 
field where—did he choose to devote his entire time to 


39 


40 


WHIRLWIND 


politics—he could realise as great a success as he had al¬ 
ready won in the City. 

But if the chains sometimes galled, they always bound. 
Just as he began to see about retiring, just so soon would 
some tempting coup suggest itself; or some interesting 
proposition be propounded that required his co-operation 
to ensure success, and the ultimate possibilities of which 
so intrigued him as to prove irresistible. So he still went 
on, and the opportune moment never came. 

Thoughts are our real actions; and Desmond’s thoughts 
had so gripped on to finance and business that he was 
incapable of acting out any other ideals. 

Now, as he journeyed Citywards, he knew that an un¬ 
scrupulous firm had been for long trying its whole length 
to get the better of him over certain important foreign 
concessions, and this knowledge fired him to fresh energy. 
The matter was not only important, but a young, promis¬ 
ing scheme; and if there was one thing about business that 
Desmond really loved, it was the excitement he got out of 
watching an infant darling find its feet and growing up 
a strong, healthy credit to his care. So, could we have 
looked inside the car that took him to his office, we might 
not have recognised in the Antrobus within the easy, 
flannel-clad lounger we first met in Aylmer Forsyth’s 
garden. 

One of the mysteries surrounding men of affairs in 
England is the way they can throw off the City and office 
and take on a new lease of life through the means of a 
pastime, or some outdoor interest. 

Down in the country Desmond had slacked thoroughly, 
and entered entirely into the life about. He had enquired 
with intelligent interest as to crops and roots, cattle that 
had taken prizes, and cattle that were expected to do so 


WHIRLWIND 


4i 


next time, and the result of spending a little time on 
trivialities was fresh vigour, added force, and a keener 
concentration on the real business of life. 

I have told you that Desmond began his career with 
very other ideas from those which finally possessed him 
and led him on to the splendid position he ultimately held. 
When at last he entered the family business he did so for 
one, and only one reason. He was seized with a purpose, 
to make money as quickly and as abundantly as possible, 
and this was because his angel or his fate (call it what 
you will) had stood by his side, and pointing to the wreck 
of all his hopes and plans, had cried aloud, “Behold, what 
a pitiful end is this.” 

And he proved so eager a pupil that he himself had 
set fire to the ruins lest one stone of that rotten old build¬ 
ing should stand upon another, set fire in a wild burst of 
rage, with a tortured, twisted sense of wrong, seeing 
nothing in true perspective, but all things out of focus— 
till only ashes were left of the blazing ruins, and he stood 
alone face to face with his future. 

But he stood free. 

Gradually, the fascination of City life got hold of him 
till he had no unkind thoughts for the old days, scarcely 
any regret for the burnt ruins, certainly no desire to build 
them again. He looked ahead; and had almost forgotten 
the woman who had so mercilessly thrown the house of 
cards in his face. She had passed out of his ken, almost 
out of his consciousness; it was of another woman he 
thought, one who did not crave luxury and excitement, 
but who was for ever a faithful comrade and a loyal 
friend. But our thoughts are our real actions, and must 
work themselves out. 

Only during that last week-end at Fordcombe had Fell 


42 


WHIRLWIND 


urged him for the hundredth time to take the good that 
fortune offered. 

“My dear old man, chuck it! This nigger’s life of 
yours isn’t worth a tinker’s cuss.” 

So had the oracle spoken as the two men strolled across 
the fields rather late on the Sunday night towards Fell’s 
home at Timbleworth. 

“But what should I do if I gave up the City? What 
have I to fall back upon?” 

“Marriage—and you haven’t far to look for it, 
either!” 

Desmond laughed before he answered—not so gaily 
perhaps. 

“Oh, physician, heal thyself. You’re lonelier than I 
am.” 

“No. I deny that. You’ve shoals more friends and 
acquaintances, heaps more interests and engagements, but 
I’m the happier man. I ask nothing more than I have. 
A decent country life, a congenial occupation, adequate 
income, and good tobacco.” 

And Desmond thought, if not a very lofty ambition it 
might perhaps be better than an ambition that o’erleapt 
itself, nor was it so very diverse from the life he had 
originally planned for himself. 

“Let’s sit here for a bit,” he said. “I always liked this 
view, and it looks rather jolly to-night.” 

The little lane had brought them to a stile, and from 
there the ground sloped somewhat steeply to the village in 
the plain where the doctor lived. A few lights could 
yet be seen in the cottages, and the moon, rising before 
them, lit up the river and the old mill-house, revealing in 
the latter an importance the daylight hid. 

“It’s like this, Fell. I just can’t do anything but what 


WHIRLWIND 


43 

I am doing. I must go on. What have I to take its 
place ?” 

“I've told you.” 

Fell had a pleasant, soft voice, rather deep and round, 
that came out of his big frame with a slow drawl. 

“You know as well as I. Why pretend you don’t? 
Personally, I’ve always been a bit surprised at you for 
not—as it appears to me—quite playing the game.” 

“Not playing the game, am I?” 

“No, it’s not cricket. Here are you always hanging 
about—here or in town—and nothing further.” 

Antrobus puffed at his pipe awhile before answering. 
He knew quite well that Margaret was being referred to. 
And, perhaps, never before had Fell spoken with such 
deep conviction. To-night Desmond could not put him 
off with a laugh, or dismiss the matter lightly, nor was it 
pleasant to be told he was not behaving in an exactly 
straightforward way. 

“You speak rather strongly, old son.” 

“Well, I feel strongly. I know I’ve a fatal habit of 
blurting out the truth. That’s why I’m still in this rural 
spot and not practising in a big way in Harley Street. I 
suppose you never have said anything, by the way?” 

“To Margaret? No, of course not. Haven’t we both 
forgotten that she is a Roman Catholic?” Desmond an¬ 
swered, a little bitterly. 

“There have been mixed marriages before, and 
it’s not as though she were the heir or either of you 
were young.” 

And Desmond could not deny that, in that matter, any¬ 
way, Fell spoke the truth. And then he remembered with 
sorrow that even were a son to be born to him that night 
he could never hope to be the father to that son, when the 


44 


WHIRLWIND 


boy should be twenty-three, that he could be now, were 
he father to a lad of Aylmer’s age. 

“You never saw—her?” 

“No, I was out of England, with Turner’s expedition.” 

“Yes, I remember. She was the most beautiful thing 
God ever made.” 

Fell looked away across the plain. He had never, 
known Desmond speak of the woman before, and won¬ 
dered if some tenderness yet lingered with his friend for 
those old far-off days. 

“Strange, isn’t it, that so radiant a creature 
Desmond broke off abruptly. He caught himself speak¬ 
ing aloud, almost unconsciously. 

“I’m falling into the conventional. Dear old man, 
hadn’t we better leave well alone?” 

“You never heard what became of—of her?” asked 
Fell, hesitating to mention a name Desmond himself 
seemed carefully to avoid. 

“Nothing. I have no idea what has become of her. 
Good Lord! How I grew to detest her! Believe me, for 
a time she made me hate all women. I was very young! 
Well, I can truly say I feel no bitterness against her now. 
She’s like some one I’ve never seen, but only heard un¬ 
pleasant stories of.” 

“Then why let her ruin your life a second time?” 

“Has she ruined it at all? Should I be where I am but 
for the line she took ? She it was filled me with a per¬ 
fect lust for success—not for myself, God knows, but 
just so as I could say, ‘Look what I’ve done! See what 
I possess!’ Thinking it over calmly,” he added, reflec¬ 
tively, “I expect the world would say she’d made a man 
of me.” 

“The world be damned,” affirmed Fell, in his quiet. 



WHIRLWIND 


45 


emphatic way. “What’s the world to do with you, the 
real you? Nothing, and you know it. Is that big house 
of yours in town, home?” 

“I never enter it without envying my own butler. He 
quits it every night and goes to a place he calls home.” 

“Exactly, that’s just what you need, a place you can 
call ‘home.’ I do want to see this through, and I say 
again, it’s not fair.” 

“Well, will it console you to know I’ve often wanted 
to tell Margaret something of the truth? But I lack the 
courage. Selfish of me, eh? But we’re all selfish some 
way, and I’m afraid of losing her friendship. That’s 
where I’m selfish.” 

“She’d understand. I can’t believe she wouldn’t. 
She’s that sort.” 

“But think, man, think, how she would hate it all. 
Don’t you see she must ” Desmond cried, raising his 
voice a little, and speaking quickly. “What has she in 
common with that old nastiness ?” 

But Fell was quite unconvinced. As he sat thus in the 
moonlight, swinging his stick between his knees, he felt 
that in his own creed never more than one course could 
be right, and was, therefore, very clearly, the only one 
that should be taken. 

And in his heart Antrobus confessed that Fell was 
right; only it was very hard to go back at this late time 
of day. What is done, is done. And, for the Lord’s 
sake, let the unhappy past find what rest it may. 

The two men rose and strode through the wheat, one 
behind the other, down the narrow path. Antrobus rec¬ 
ognised the truth in all that had been said to him, and 
faced the difficulties and embarrassments that he would 
be forced to meet should he follow his friend’s advice; 


4 6 


WHIRLWIND 


while that friend, guessing something of all this, most 
wisely held his tongue. 

How hard, how impossible, it would be to lose one 
atom of the sympathy and friendship Margaret had given 
him, now, so many years! Their relationship had come 
about so casually it was difficult to analyse how it first 
began. He had always looked that they two would con¬ 
tinue this intimacy all their lives. But he saw clearly 
how misleading his own position was; it had deceived 
the world and had deceived Margaret, the last in all that 
world he would mislead. 

Walking through the fields this summer night with 
Fell’s remonstrance hot within him, he found many mis¬ 
takes, many injustices he had committed against the 
woman he loved; he had not meant to inflict them on her 
and if events were going too fast they must be pulled 
up. The coach must not go down hill too recklessly ,* but 
what if he pulled up short? It had been very pleasant 
travelling in Margaret’s company. Would she alight and 
insist on going another road? 

They were nearing the little village now; had passed 
through the wheat, and were crossing a bit of 
meadow that ran close behind some pleasant old farm 
buildings. 

Here they paused a moment; the doctor’s lodgings were 
handy, and the end of the walk had come. 

Almost opposite, but a few yards down the road, was 
the miller’s neat little red brick Georgian house, with its 
steep, short flight of steps to the narrow white door, 
fronting the very ancient mill that stood on a little island 
in the river and seemed to lean for support against its 
own wheel. Between came the weir and the wide space of 
troubled water, very white in the moon, while above 


WHIRLWIND 47 

flowed the open lazy river, flush with its bank, and heed¬ 
less of its coming, precipitous descent. 

“You are quite right, Horace, and if I did wrong I am 
sorry. Anyway, I’ll make amends now.” 

“I’m glad,” answered Fell simply. 

“Only, I can’t tell her half. If I rake up the past I 
shall have to make hay of the present.” 

“Exactly. I see that. Quite.” 

Both were silent. Desmond was wondering what sort 
of crop his hay would make; and the other was thinking 
how like Desmond it was to do thoroughly what he had 
once made up his mind to see done. 

“Look here,” he said, after a little hesitation. “Sup¬ 
pose you say nothing to her until you are quite sure you 
can be free? You know! What I have so often urged 
before. Listen,” Fell added quickly, before the other 
should have time to interrupt. “I have to be in town a 
night or so next week. Give me a line to your lawyers 
and let me act for you. You are a busy man, but I can 
do the preliminaries, and when you know, well, where she 
is and what chance you stand, then you can act yourself. 
How does that strike you ?” 

“And suppose everything turns out as you apparently 
hope? What then? Do you propose I should go to a 
woman like Margaret Dalison, and say ‘I love you. My 
whole heart is set on making you my wife, but I’m not 
free. You and all the world think I am, but I’m not. In 
fact, I’m a living lie. I have a wife, and that wife is 
living. Years ago, before you and I ever met, when I 
was still a boy and of no importance whatever, she went 
off with another man because he was rich, very rich, in¬ 
deed. But since I love you, since I want you for my 
wife, I’m going to rake up all the past; get my divorce, 



48 


WHIRLWIND 


and offer you marriage. Put crudely, that’s what it 
amounts to. How the devil can I say that to Margaret 
or any strict Catholic either?” 

Fell answered by two questions not so hard to answer 
as the one put to himself. 

“Have you any right to go on posing as a widower ? 
Aren’t you wronging her by keeping the truth from her ? 
Things have gone too far.” 

“I suppose they have. But I swear I don’t know how 
it happened. It’s all come about so gradually, so involun¬ 
tarily, without any effort on my part and, God knows, 
without any on hers.” 

“Why on earth didn’t you get a divorce at the time?” 
cried Fell impatiently. “When, as you say, you were 
unknown! No one would have cared then. Now, of 
course, there’ll be columns in every paper.” 

“There’ll be a hell of a row, yes,” answered Desmond 
with a grim sort of humour, “but her father was my old 
tutor, and he begged me not to, hoped she’d come back, 
I think. As for myself, I didn’t care. However, the old 
man’s dead now. What if I had got my divorce twenty 
years ago?” he cried, turning again to Fell, and this time 
almost fierce in his eagerness. “What if I were free now ? 
Don’t you know how a Catholic regards marriage with a 
divorced man? It’s sin, no marriage at all. Margaret 
would regard marrying me as nothing less than living in 
adultery.” 

“I think she’d understand.” 

“Oh, she’d understand; she’d pity; she’d be sym¬ 
pathetic. But what about our friendship? If the truth 
blows upon it won’t some of the bloom vanish?” 

“You must risk that. I’m convinced she ought to 
know the position. Good Lord! It’s only honest!” 


WHIRLWIND 


49 


“Yes, only honest! and I’m going to tell her. But the 
righteousness of an act doesn’t make its execution any 
pleasanter. Neither does it seem to improve my chances,” 
Desmond added. 

“According to you, your chance is nil, whether you 
speak or no. Others may differ, I’m one of them. I 
think you have sufficient interest in the Roman Catholic 
world to get over those same difficulties.” 

“It would certainly take all the interest I’ve got—a 
divorced man and a heretic! It’s a hopeless combina¬ 
tion.” 

“Well, put that aside. Miss Dalison ought to know, 
and I’ve got an idea in the end she’d be happier for know¬ 
ing.” 

“I suppose,” said Desmond, when at last they shook 
hands in agreement, and bade each other good-night, “I 
suppose I’ve been an awful coward over this. I’ve al¬ 
ways taken the easiest way.” 

* * * * * 

The little path back home across the meadow and up 
through the wheat seemed very steep to Desmond when 
he turned away towards Fordcombe and to Aylmer’s 
cottage. Very steep and less friendly, while the long 
shadow of himself the moon cast before him took on 
grotesque and weird shapes. 

What would, what could Margaret say? 

“More and more it seems impossible to tell her one 
thing without the other. She must hear everything, and 
whether I get my divorce or no.” 

“I cannot go and say T love you. Shall I get a 
divorce?’ I know her and her principles too well to be¬ 
lieve she could ever marry me. The important thing is 




50 


WHIRLWIND 


for her to know the truth. But yet—Oh, religion, re¬ 
ligion, what enigmas you have to answer for! Though 
my wife has sinned flagrantly, and not even from over¬ 
whelming passionate love but merely from greed, the 
woman I love is to be denied me!” 

A little cloud floating idly in heaven, strayed before 
the moon, bowed, and passed on. It was only a little 
cloud, but the world looked very blank to the lonely man 
when the light of the moon was gone. The little path 
was so narrow, and it was not easy in the dark, 
and he went very carefully for fear of treading on the 
wheat. 

And all the bad old times seemed to come trooping 
back, crowing in glee, hemming him round, and taking 
terrible vengeance for his long neglect. 

Desmond saw himself a boy again, young for his age, 
and little more than Aylmer at that. He saw also the 
home he had made. It had not been much of a home, 
certainly, and the recollection made him smile, but such as 
it had been, well, it had been home. 

“I was a young fool! I thought she loved me, I was 
absolutely confident! A cocksure, damned young fool, 
indeed!” 

And now, vividly seen, as though indeed she walked 
in flesh beside him across the fields, glided the pale, dark¬ 
eyed girl. He knew again the scent of that chestnut hair, 
he could look into the depth of those violet eyes, mark 
the grace of a perfect form that could only belong to one 
slim girl. Hers was beauty that had nothing to do with 
prettiness. It was exotic, exquisite; of a charm and 
perfection that were very potent, and very potent because 
so artless and unconscious. Again she went beside him 
through the fields, and after all these years, unchanged, 


WHIRLWIND 


5i 


unchangeable. She walked cheek by jowl beside him; he 
could feel her breath, hear her little breathing sighs. 
There she was going with the same old gliding walk, the 
same musical rhythmic stride, keeping equal pace with 
him, step by step. 

Beautiful! Beautiful exceedingly! And even after 
meeting and mixing with many lovely Mrs. Pallisers, and 
famous Lady Flintshires, Desmond confessed not one of 
them could equal the ghost at his elbow, pacing silently 
beside him, step by step, touching his sleeve with hers, 
so close was she, yet unaware his thought had sum¬ 
moned her. 

She was all-excelling, born, surely, of music and the 
sun. Yet woman also, woman to love, to hold if you 
could, but certainly to love, with a heart to respond, a 
brain to spur, a body to embrace, two lips to kiss, 
and eyes, oh! those eyes that held, enticed and 
tantalised! 

Desmond felt again the thrill of the boy who first 
kissed those red lips, pressed that ruddy chestnut hair 
between his hands, and closed those eyes with kisses; 
nor in those early days was the boy lover quick enough to 
see how Eve met Aphrodite in those eyes. 

Out there they were again in her father’s garden, and 
her arms were round him, and she whispered—well, what 
boy lovers most desire to hear. 

It is all so real, surely it must all be happening over 
again. 

This could not be the teeming rich fields of Sussex, 
but was surely the dirty, prosaic, laurel-girt garden on 
the outskirts of a flat and sordid town ? While they two, 
he, tall, athletic, goodly to the eye, and she, radiant in 
the light of a beauty even then compelling, stood once 


52 


WHIRLWIND 


more together. Ah, but he had felt so sure of her, and 
thought the garden Paradise itself. 

* * * * * 

The little path back across the meadow and up through 
the wheat was surely very steep to-night. He went alone 
now, and rested on that same stile where lately he and 
Fell had sat. 

“Margaret, with your traditions, your lofty ideals, 
Catholic creed and conservative heart, you are, I think, 
a little severe, yet comprehending. Yes, without doubt, 
of most excellent and sympathetic understanding, but 
still Catholic, trained, governed, dominated by your 
creed!” 

Kind she cannot help but be, but kindness is but little 
of itself. To be of any use it needs to be woven in a 
stronger mesh. Horrified, assuredly, and maybe resent¬ 
ful too! Yes, resentful to have so repellent a story told 
her. 

“Yet if she loves me, ah, Margaret, but do you love? 
And is your love great enough to dare? There will be a 
hard battle for you. A battle with love, power, joy, 
freedom, light, and bigotry, creed, darkness, convention, 
fighting, hurtling together, and bruising, smashing the 
gentle heart they fight across. Margaret, who conquers? 
The eternal or finite? The immortal or mortal? Is life, 
God’s immeasurable gift, to be stifled? Life, that end¬ 
less thing? Who conquers, Margaret? Who conquers?” 

* * * * * 

He passed through the little belt of trees out into the 
lane, and then, drawn with great desire, gazed up the 
short avenue towards her house, for though she was in- 


WHIRLWIND 


53 


deed far away yet something of her might linger there? 
And, standing thus, he thought, and thought, and 
thought, stared and thought. 

Minutes passed, quarters, half hours; still was he 
there, gazing towards her home, for though she was far 
away something of her must linger there and would 
surely come to him. 

Thoughts came crowding, long refused admittance, 
pushed aside, thwarted and strangled, now they herded 
in his heart; thoughts of love for this woman, thoughts 
of home and happiness, panting, hurrying they 
came. 

Yet the night was silent to all the world; the little ham¬ 
let lay perfectly still, and the inhabitants of the cottages 
and farms rested in sleep, all things were very quiet while 
the unseen worlds vibrated to the throbbing reverberation 
of the strife. Unseen, unheard, the battle raged in 
Heaven: all good, all evil clashed. Inextricable confu¬ 
sion reigned, till suddenly, quite suddenly, a great calm 
fell, the warfare ended, and only a strain of music 
seemed trailing in the air. 

* * * * * 

It was very late. Swiftly he went home, swiftly and 
softly up the path, opened the door and glided in, firmly 
set and at last decided. 

* * * * * 

And all the world outside was white in the moon. No 
sign of conflict, no trace of mental battle, the crashing 
of theories, of creeds, the struggle of unseen armies in 
the air. The principalities and powers had fled, and only 


54 


WHIRLWIND 


the white moon looked down with hard, unsympathetic, 
cruel eyes. 

She looked like a beautiful, amorous woman; a pale¬ 
eyed courtesan on blue velvet cushions, criticising her re¬ 
flection in a glass. 


V 


Some people there are acutely reminiscent of shop win¬ 
dows. I refer to those highly ornate and, to give them 
their due, effective arrangements that (because of their 
infinite variety) custom cannot stale or time get a chance 
to wither. 

Augusta was such a one and ever kept her windows 
bright and smart. 

She was, moreover, a perfectly contented woman, in¬ 
undated with invitations to all the best houses; also to 
most of the smartest; not always quite the same thing. 

These had come her way further back than she cared 
to remember; and she trusted they would continue till 
she departed for lands where, she understood, entertain¬ 
ing took a more serious form. 

It pleased her to find herself still in the running. 
Loins girt, head up, elbows in, a little blown, perhaps, a 
little strained and panting, but still running gamely on. 
But there was always another lap and it was so long since 
she first started that she had quite forgotten what the 
prize was she was running for. 

It is a safe rule to go by that only rich people can af¬ 
ford ingratitude, and another good axiom is this, that 
only the poor can afford to appear rich. 

In self defence, wealth is forced to ape poverty or it 
ceases to be wealth. 


55 


56 


WHIRLWIND 


Dives says he is sure “a moderate income is the high 
est happiness.” Whereupon Lazarus offers to change 
places. Then Dives says he would not feel justified in 
shoving his responsibilities upon another’s shoulders. 
Lazarus replies with something about the duty of bearing 
one another’s burdens, but Dives closes the conversation 
by muttering “we should all do our duty in that state of 
life, etc., etc.,” and remarks that Lazarus must see the 
new Rolls Royce. 

And which of them really “pals up” with life? That 
boisterous, full-blooded young fellow, always quarrelling 
with his invalid step-brother, Existence. 

The same holds good of Truth and Compromise. They 
quarrel so terribly whenever they meet, that no one ever 
entertains the two together. 

To the average English mind, life runs best on the 
rails of Compromise, and therefore, anything that 
creates a jar, is to be deprecated. Now Truth, like most 
well-intentioned people, is seldom tactful. She has a 
way of running out into the road and shouting; and the 
poor soul only grows worse with time. 

Truth is seldom received other than as a poor relation. 
In fact she is only really welcome when she comes so dis¬ 
guised that nobody knows her. When she comes as her 
naked self, nobody knows her either, and no wonder. 
She is regarded in the light of a woman who has run 
away with a charming man from a very dull and respect¬ 
able husband. No one can blame her very much; but 
women are mortally jealous she had such power over two 
men as to get one of them to marry her and the other to 
elope with her. 

Society being an easy-going dame, so long as all 
goes well, says to her servants: “Do anything you like, 


WHIRLWIND 


57 


only don’t shock me.” So, as nothing is ever so great a 
shock as Truth, for goodness sake let us hustle the poor, 
unclad lunatic back to her well, and when we have got her 
right down to the bottom, let us roll a big stone on the 
top and put a sentry on the top of that so that everything 
be proper and respectability reign triumphant. 

Lady Alaburton was all for compromise and medioc¬ 
rity. 

Of course she admitted certain exceptions. Lord St. 
Osyth was one of them. But Lord St. Osyth was very 
wealthy and a celebrated collector, and his peerage was 
acknowledged even by war profiteers; no eccentricity 
could undermine his status. 

He had said once at a dinner party that “originality 
was almost a lost art, so few people possessed it, and that 
it took a very clever person indeed to be original, but to be 
original and socially successful at the same time required 
unique genius. Some few succeeded and spent the rest 
of their time trying to conceal their cleverness; while 
there were yet a few who succeeded so well they got mis¬ 
taken for really smart people.” 

Augusta had laughed with the rest without in the 
least knowing why. 

“But, dear Lord St. Osyth, don’t you think ordinary 
folk are so much easier? They ask nothing of us, and 
really this is not a time to listen to those who do.” 

St. Osyth turned his handsome grey head and smiled. 

“A certain man may yet fall among thieves,” he ob¬ 
served. “Only nowadays the good Samaritans rush by 
in motor cars, so can hardly be expected to notice the 
poor man in the ditch.” 

It was something of this solicitude that all should con¬ 
tinue in the admirably conducted manner she had been 






58 


WHIRLWIND 


accustomed to, that so roused her interest in the situation 
between Katie Dalison and Aylmer Forsyth. 

The law of compensation did not appeal to Lady Ala- 
burton. She considered the best thing you could do was 
to be “somebody and rich,” say a peer in the position of 
St. Osyth. To be nobody and rich was not so good, but 
possibly with a little tact (it is wonderful what you can 
do with a hundred thousand pounds and tact), matters 
might be mended. But to be a nobody and poor was per¬ 
fectly damnable, almost as damnable as being somebody 
and poor, and quite as ridiculous. 

The Duchess also thought Katie not very wise and said 
so. Consequently when Aylmer presented himself in 
Grosvenor Square as Katie (naughty girl) had almost 
commanded him to do, he did not receive the same wel¬ 
come Her Grace extended to the “somebodies and rich.” 

It must be admitted number 1,004, Grosvenor Square, 
was a somewhat awe-inspiring mansion. It radiated an 
atmosphere anything but exhilarating to youthful ineligi- 
bles; there was a hush about the place, and a singular but 
unobtrusive splendour. The servants trod the thick 
carpeted ways with the air of the head of some big furni¬ 
ture department, conducting the visitor past priceless 
cabinets and antique furnishings to finally indicate “a 
rare specimen of fifteenth century Spanish bedstead,” 
when the client’s only need is an enamel washstand for 
the slavey’s bedroom. 

I have never ascended the marble stair of 1,004, or 
watched the eloquent back of the butler as he preceded 
my way, without wondering if the flunkeys left in the hall 
were grinning behind my back at some solecism in my 
toilet that was to me entirely unknown. If I ever doubted 
those great ones approved of me, I was always sure the 


WHIRLWIND 


59 


Groom of the Chambers did not. But that he gave the 
Duchess his full approbation, I am certain. Her Grace 
was in all truth suitable to her surroundings. One might 
not think so at first glance, when she seemed almost in¬ 
significant ! But at the second look you recognised that, 
though she was meant to be insignificant at her birth, 
that admirable woman had succeeded in getting “one up” 
on her Maker. 

She was short, with rather doubtful features, and as 
to figure—shall we say she had to be careful? It was 
how she expressed it herself, so perhaps better leave it at 
that. She had never been handsome, never pretty, there 
was nothing to distinguish her from other people. But 
she was distinguished from other people, most pre-emi¬ 
nently so. Cheated at her birth, she clutched fiercely at 
her one asset. What there was of her she carried mag¬ 
nificently. Undoubtedly she had atmosphere. In most 
ways she was rather a stupid woman, but in one she was 
all excelling. She spoke little, but owned a perfectly 
priceless listening manner, and that won her a reputation 
for being charming. 

She was not altogether unaware of her limitations, and 
when she chanced to find herself in conversation with 
anyone distinguished in any particular walk of life, she 
confined herself so far as she possibly might to a smiling 
silence. 

She would listen graciously, her head the least in¬ 
clined, so as to lose no word, and would wear her smiling 
silence, which, though maybe a somewhat homely affair, 
was quite an attractive arrangement, anyway, when met 
upon a Duchess. 

However, she had also in her possession quite another 
sort of silence and used it unsparingly should occasion 


6o 


WHIRLWIND 


demand. It was not so much a chilling silence that froze, 
as a vast expanse of cold ocean that engulfed you 
hopelessly in the waves of oblivion. It was the most 
colossal thing of its kind that ever happened, and has 
been known to terrify the more insignificant ex-monarchs 
of Europe. 

The little lady would look at you silently and convey, 
as, by some electric force, total ignorance of who you 
were, absolute indifference as to what you might be, 
wonder at the audacity that brought you into her pres¬ 
ence, but a certainty that some act of God would shortly 
remove you thence. 

It was with this specimen that poor Aylmer had to 
contend when he paid his one and only call. In after 
years he was a frequent guest at one thousand and four, 
but he was a married man then, and extremely well to do, 
and never did the Duchess acknowledge recognising in 
that “charming fellow,” the audacious youth who had 
once stood on the holy ground of her back drawing-room 
carpet. 

The instant she caught his name the Duchess placed 
him. She rose from her chair, stood still, offered a 
limp hand, and was silent, and at once was telephoned to 
the wretched youth the intelligence that if there was one 
person in all London who should not have dared to enter 
that house under any circumstances whatever, Aylmer 
Forsyth was most assuredly that one person. 

It was all beautifully done, without rudeness or arro¬ 
gance. The manner of it amounted to genius. 

(After a pause.) “Have you seen Mr. Dalison lately?” 
Her Grace spoke with an air that suggested to have met 
Mr. Dalison once was sufficient honour for so unim¬ 
portant a youth, and how he had contrived to do it again 



WHIRLWIND 


61 


not only beat her understanding, but was also a cause for 
infinite sorrow. 

“Not since they returned to Fordcombe,” answered 
Aylmer. And then the Duchess took out her silence again 
and waited. She seemed to expect Aylmer to continue 
the conversation by himself, or to get up and go, anyway 
to do something less awkward than sit there till one of 
the servants came and wiped him up. And very likely he 
would have got up and run, as many a person far more 
conversant with Duchesses had been known to do, from 
that terrible presence, only Katie happened to be in the 
room, apparently fearless of her aunt, and smiling 
kindly in the background after welcoming him very 
prettily. The Duchess at length vouchsafed further 
speech. 

“Aren’t you Sir Desmond Antrobus’s secretary?” 

“I am one of them, yes.” 

“Which one?” 

“Oh, well, I hardly know, Duchess. You see, I do most 
of Sir Desmond’s private work.” 

Aylmer could smile now, the humour of the situation 
began to dawn on him and he felt less like an animal torn 
from the wild and let loose in a dainty boudoir. As to 
Her Grace, she took no further interest in him at all. 
She managed, however, to convey her rooted conviction 
that if this singular person couldn’t explain which of Sir 
Desmond’s secretaries he was, why then, in her opinion, 
he had no business to be secretary at all! 

Other visitors dropped in, and after a few words with 
Katie, Aylmer took his leave. He could have sworn the 
Duchess had forgotten he was in the room, and in saying 
goodibye had looked as though she wondered how so 
strange a creature had got into her house, and what the 


62 


WHIRLWIND 


servants could be thinking, about not to have cleared it 
away before. 

He had not called again at 1,004, Grosvenor Square. 
But he met Katie at many parties, and there is such a 
place as Ranelagh, with shady trees and pleasant ways. 
Further, are there not such things as occasional week¬ 
end house parties, and many another occasion which a 
young man can utilise if he is in love? 

And he was in love, and of course Katie knew it. How 
could she help it? When twenty-three really falls in 
love and begins to regard one girl as something very 
special, twenty-three may be clever, but is never suffi¬ 
ciently clever to hide the fact from sweet and twenty. 

As to the girl, that individual had not quite made up 
her mind. She certainly knew him better than any other 
man of her own generation, but knowing people well is 
not always a reason for being in love with them. If 
Aylmer asked her straight away she might find it a little 
difficult to answer. A girl often fancies herself in love 
for the strangest of reasons, and frequently denies it for 
reasons equally obscure. 

A moonlight night, an extra good dance, someone pro¬ 
posing to another girl, a row at home, any one of these 
things coming at the psychological moment may turn the 
scale. 

Anyhow, she thought it all great fun and Aunt Isobel, 
“the quaintest old thing in the world.” Aunt Isobel 
meanwhile considered the way Aylmer constantly turned 
up, and in quite unexpected spots, exasperating and un¬ 
necessary. She had signified her opinion of him when he 
called on her, but here he was asking Katie for dances, 
as cool as you please, and at Flintshire House of all 
places. She presumed Antrobus had something to do 


WHIRLWIND 


63 


with it. How otherwise had Agatha Flintshire heard of 
young Forsyth? But there he was and apparently whole 
as though he had never been swamped in the terrible 
silence of Grosvenor Square. St. Osyth happened to be 
standing by and she remarked to him that young For¬ 
syth seemed to dance very well. It worried her that he 
danced well. She knew her niece would never dance with 
a mediocre dancer, but this young man danced most un¬ 
fortunately well, and Jim Aldershot and Tony Chichester 
had to content themselves with other partners. 

She asked St. Osyth if he knew anything about Ayl¬ 
mer. St. Osyth was supposed to know everybody and 
might be able to enlighten her. But he knew nothing. 

“He is evidently one of those young men one meets 
nowadays,” said his Lordship, “nobodies from nowhere 
who, as a rule, are considerably more presentable than 
somebodies from somewhere.” 

The Duchess here smiled her pleasant smile and wan¬ 
dered on in her quiet even voice: 

“A very nice looking young fellow, yes, one sees him 
about. Antrobus’s secretary.” 

“Exactly,” answered St. Osyth. “His name is For¬ 
syth, but I can’t place him. He is no relation to the 
Forsyths of Upton. In fact, he doesn’t seem to have any 
relations. Do you know where Antrobus fished him up?” 

“On a rink, I believe.” 

“A rink!” exclaimed his Lordship. 

“Yes, quite a good one, I’m told, at Miirren you know. 
I understand Sir Desmond and he are almost like father 
and son.” 

The old gentleman smiled. “Indeed,” he said, “I be¬ 
lieve a good many people say so. The ages point to the 
possibility.” 


6 4 


WHIRLWIND 


“Oh,” said the Duchess. It was a very little Oh! 
A very small, deprecating Oh! But it conveyed 
volumes. 

“Please don’t think I mean it’s probable. Personally 
I don’t credit the rumour one moment. There has never 
been any reason to suppose Antrobus anything but what 
he seems, his character stands too high, only, of course, 
well, it might be, you know.” 

And as he spoke he screwed a glass into his eye and 
took a long hard stare at Aylmer, who, utterly uncon¬ 
scious of the interest he created, was enjoying himself 
hugely. 

The Duchess also took a look. She did not believe in 
the relationship either. It was the first she had heard of 
it and she agreed with St. Osyth that Antrobus’s reputa¬ 
tion stood far above such trivial gossip. 

Still she could not help observing some faint resem¬ 
blance in Aylmer to Desmond. So slight was it that she 
thought it could only have been born of St. Osyth’s re¬ 
mark. 

“Are people saying that sort of thing?” she asked, as 
the dance over, she watched Katie and Aylmer go out of 
the room. 

Lord St. Osyth looked bored, the subject did not inter¬ 
est him. “Dear Duchess, there has never been any sug¬ 
gestion that Antrobus is anything but the childless 
widower he appears—only—seeing his interest in the 
youth, some people, not of much count, wonder.” 

“It’s strange he doesn’t marry again. I should have 
thought a man in his position would have required a 
wife of his own.” 

The Duchess spoke of a wife as though she were an 
electric light fitting needed to brighten the house. 



WHIRLWIND 65 

“Perhaps he prefers to borrow one. It’s probably 
more exciting if a trifle more expensive.” 

The Duchess again smiled her little smile and remem¬ 
bered the gentleman who had spoken was himself reputed 
the greatest authority in London on the relative cost of 
his own wife and someone else’s. 

At that same moment Augusta Alaburton sailed up. 
She had been down to supper and, on returning to the 
ballroom, had passed Katie and Aylmer in one of those 
cosy little sitting out places that were surely not intended 
by Lady Flintshire for heiresses to share with impecuni¬ 
ous young men. 

“How charming Katie looks to-night,” said Augusta. 
“I’ve just seen her with young Forsyth. Very well in¬ 
deed, she looks, only the wee-est bit tired.” 

“We ought to be going, and I promised to look in at 
Alicia Suffolk’s! Would you find my niece and tell her 
we are going?” 

It was to a young man the Duchess spoke, who hap¬ 
pened to be on tap. She had no idea who he was, but 
she presumed that he knew her and consequently her 
niece. Anyway he was a disengaged young man and 
therefore “something” to be made use of. 

As a matter of fact the young man did know her by 
sight, and Katie a very little personally, but he was a 
sympathetic youth, and, passing by the alcove, saw noth¬ 
ing. 

“What do you think about it?” Lady Alaburton asked 
St. Osyth, as the Duchess crossed the room to speak to 
some friends, who were sitting on a hard bench trying to 
look as if they enjoyed it. 

“I never think. If I did I should have no time to 
notice anything.” 


66 


WHIRLWIND 


“Why don’t they put their foot down? Who is he? 
Who are his people ?” 

“I don’t think he’s got any—happy youth!” 

“He must have people. A mother who’s delicate and 
lives in Italy. That’s nothing! I thought I knew all 
the invalids who live abroad,” she added in a way that 
implied she was genuinely aggrieved at knowing nothing 
of Mrs. Forsyth. 

Now St. Osyth eyed his fair neighbour with more than 
usual interest. “Do you really? What an amusing set 
of acquaintances you must have. I’ve always under¬ 
stood the invalids who live abroad are too shocking for 
words.” 

“Nonsense,” cried Lady Alaburton. “They know all 
the world and give the best dinners.” 

St. Osyth nodded. “You destroy my last illusion. I 
thought them the most interesting of sinners. Those 
who, as you say, know all the world but are not called 
upon by his wife. So the boy’s mother lives in Italy, does 
she ? Lucky woman! Someone said somewhere the most 
amusing people preferred supper to dinner, and though 
one dines better in Paris, Italy is ideal for supper.” 


VI 


And meanwhile the interesting young people were sit¬ 
ting contentedly together, quite oblivious to what anyone 
might be saying about them. If they were love-making, 
it was a very silent and quiet form of that ancient art, 
but, very possibly, none the less efficient for that. 

Forsyth felt it very delightful in that small intimate 
little alcove; delicious to feel the fragrance of her, and 
the dainty presence of her youth. Such intimacy was 
most refreshing, though rather inclined to go to the head. 

And the thought grew strongly within him how very 
pleasant it would be to have such an one to look after; 
and to love or, should the mood take her, be ordered about 
by her in that pleasant proprietary way he thought so 
singularly charming. 

Katie wondered at his silence, when normally he had 
plenty to say. 

“A penny for them. What is it?” 

“You’d spend a dreadful lot of pennies. I’m full of 
thoughts and can’t decide what to talk about first.” 

“Let’s talk about ourselves then. Any news of your 
mother lately?” 

“Funny you should ask that. I had a long letter only 
to-day.” 

“How is she ?” 

“Top-hole, thanks. Isn’t it quaint? She doesn’t like 
my being Sir Desmond’s secretary.” 

67 


68 


WHIRLWIND 


Katie looked up in a very genuine and natural surprise. 
“Whatever for?” 

“She doesn’t give any explicit reason. But she never 
liked my meeting him. In fact, she’s urged me again 
and again to have nothing to do with him. I didn’t dare 
tell her I’d become his secretary for quite a long while, 
and now she’s written a long remonstrance—says she 
knows things against him.” 

“What sort of things?” 

“That’s just what she doesn’t say. She’s probably 
heard some cock and bull bit of scandal. Even a man like 
Antrobus can’t go through the world without making 
enemies.” 

“But Sir Desmond! It’s absurd!” Katie was a loyal 
little soul and was at once in arms on her friend’s behalf. 

“Of course if your mother knew him she’d never be¬ 
lieve anything against him.” 

“She’s quaint, you know. Can’t bear a word of scan¬ 
dal. Rather like Miss Dalison that way. They’ve both 
the same clear thought of right and wrong. Then she 
lives awfully quietly; doesn’t know the world; and be¬ 
sides, you see, I’m an only child so she still thinks me a 
kid and liable to be influenced for the bad. She writes 
very much as I expect your aunt would under similar 
circs.” 

Katie began to wonder what it must feel like to have 
such a mother. It was curious they were both only chil¬ 
dren; the one fatherless and the other motherless. 

“I suppose you don’t remember your father any more 
than I remember my mother ?” 

“No,” answered Aylmer, in a very different voice to 
Katie’s somewhat wistful tone. “I asked about my father 
once—but only once —she told me he was dead. She 


WHIRLWIND 


69 


could hardly bear to speak of him. He must have been a 
howling cad. I couldn’t ask her again, even after all 
these years the thought of him was too much for her.” 

The distant music swelled up from below and entered 
the room where they sat, soft with shaded lights and the 
roses and carnations with which Lady Flintshire had 
strewed her stairs and corridors, and slung across doors 
and ceilings. 

“I don’t know why I should bore you with all this,” 
said Aylmer. “But you said let’s talk about ourselves. 
It’s up to you now, Go ahead.” 

“What do you want to know?” 

“Everything! When are you going home to start 
with? I was down there the other week, and that price¬ 
less old dear, Mrs. Corner, thought you must be longing 
for ‘a breath of air’ and couldn’t think how we existed 
‘all pent up together.’ ” 

“How delicious of her, and not so far wrong either.” 

Then Katie asked after certain concerns of her own: 
dogs and horses, and hunting prospects; also there was 
a newly taken-in bit of park which a famous garden archi¬ 
tect had long urged her father to make into a garden. 

“Is it really like the picture Mr. Fraser made? I wish 
I could go home to-morrow and see it,” said Katie. 

“You’ll miss all this. By the way, don’t you want to 
dance?” 

“Not just now, thanks.” 

Katie knew she had partners waiting and that it was 
rude to break her promises, but when one is talking about 
really interesting things it is a pleasure to forget one’s 
duty. 

Theirs can scarcely be called a romantic affair. But the 
passionate youth who woos with the ardour of a Byronic 


70 


WHIRLWIND 


hero has faded, along with coy maidens, out of existence. 
A few may linger—hanging on to the ropes of romance 
like strap-hangers on the tube, but for the most are they 
gone where the valentines of February 14th lie unburied 
and unsung. 

But do not think that our two delightful young things 
were altogether without sentiment. Far from it. But a 
man of twenty-three and a girl of nineteen cannot be ex¬ 
pected to realise the half of what is going on inside them. 
It is enough that they feel something pleasant and titil¬ 
lating. 

So if Aylmer and Katie appear rather cold and in 
effect very ordinary young people, well—that is just ex¬ 
actly what they are. Two ordinary, but rather charming 
and well-bred people you may run up against any day 
and almost in any place. 

But the poor Duchess has been waiting a long time in 
expectation of her Mercury’s return with the errant niece 
in tow. He did come eventually, wearing the guileless 
look of Noah’s dove when he brought that bit of green 
to decorate the Ark. He was of course “awfully sorry, 
Duchess, but he had been quite unable to find Miss Dali- 
son anywhere.” Thereupon her Grace dispatched a 
second emissary and bade him tell Katie that she was 
going for her cloak. 

This second Ambassador had been hanging about for 
some time in the hope of getting that dance, long over¬ 
due, that Katie had promised him. He was one whom 
the Duchess delighted to honour; he was about twenty- 
seven, an age Her Grace considered a most suitable one 
at which a man should marry. But had Aldershot been 
even ninety-one she would have felt even that period of 
adolescence equally suitable. For the young man was 


WHIRLWIND 


7i 


extremely rich, of the real old peerage and, in the eyes of 
all female Europe, a most desirable match. 

Then he was Catholic, and, though she had no religion 
of her own, the Duchess quite realised the advisability of 
starting wedded life with some sort of mutual religion. 
Wise woman! It is better to have no creed at all than 
to marry on too many. Few are great enough to forgive 
another his creed, or understand the reason of his belief. 

Aldershot had none of the sympathetic scruples of his 
predecessor. He set out to look for Miss Kate with every 
intention of finding her, and did so pretty quickly, carry¬ 
ing her straight back to her chaperon, who in her turn 
carried her off to Lady Suffolk’s. The Duchess also 
carried off Lord Aldershot. She called it “giving him a 
lift,” but it would have been nothing short of sheer rape 
had he not himself been so eager to go. 

Perhaps this was the beginning of a little warmer feel¬ 
ing for the poor lover, left behind amongst Lady Flint¬ 
shire’s green plants, than Katie had ever felt before. 
And she snubbed poor Aldershot so that he felt like a 
worm before it turns. 

The Duchess, however, was more or less content ; a 
little snubbing wouldn’t do this rich and pampered young 
man any harm. He was much too spoilt by mothers and 
their daughters, as it was, neither did he appear to resent 
Katie’s treatment of him; on the contrary, it seemed to 
have a most admirable effect. 

So she stayed a little longer at Lady Suffolk’s than her 
“just looking in” might have suggested. She stood in 
the door and watched the dancers, as she had stood and 
watched night after night that season; listening with her 
little smile when anyone came up and spoke to her; but in 
reality giving only the slightest attention to what was 


72 


WHIRLWIND 


being said, yet earning credit all the while for a most at¬ 
tentive and charming listener. 

And Aylmer went home to his rooms, lit his pipe, and 
began wondering what would happen were he to ask that 
dear girl to marry him. 

If he wanted to take this young girl, hitherto so shel¬ 
tered, so tenderly, lovingly, guarded, the spoilt darling 
of her own set into his own life, what had he to offer ? 

He looked round at his simple, unpretentious rooms; 
he recalled his pleasant but hardly palatial cottage, and the 
exchange hardly seemed fair. 

He knew his mother was very well off, almost rich he 
believed, and would be ready and delighted to increase 
his allowance, nor would she miss the extra amount she 
gave him. But there were other obstacles he had never 
thought about before, but now they stood up before him 
on their hind legs and grinned at him derisively. 

“Good Lord! What credentials have I to give ? Who 
on earth am I ? What family do I belong to ? Have we 
no relations? No history in the world. Are we so 
utterly alone—we two—I and the mater? And a nice 
pleasant gentleman my father must have been! The 
Squire would naturally jump at the connection; any 
father of a girl like that would,” he finished off bitterly. 


VII 


Whoever voiced the great truth that, whereas it is 
easier to pray for our enemies than our friends, but our 
relations are past praying for under any circumstances, 
would have been quite unsympathetic to Aylmer’s desire 
for something in the way of a relation, even to a cousin 
of the most Scottish degree. 

Marriages are, we know, made in Heaven, and presum¬ 
ably Providence is so busy arranging these affairs that 
no time is left for the proper supervision of the results. 

But the good intentions of Heaven are the devil’s op¬ 
portunities. 

However, Heaven sometimes brings off a coup, and 
when the devil’s asleep a man and woman win the Happy 
Marriage Stakes. Nor is this so very occasional, for the 
dear old gentleman is getting on in years, and people 
are not only no longer frightened of him, but even laugh 
at him. And ridicule can kill the devil as well as other 
things—anyway in France, and he was always considered 
French on the mother’s side, that is, in England. 

And so Aylmer sat in his room, pipe out, not think¬ 
ing of bed, visioning estimable and fascinating relations, 
living respectably in houses as old and 'long-possessed as 
Fordcombe, rising with one accord to call him blessed. 
But except for his maternal grandfather he could call 
none to mind. 

This one relative had seemed a very old man; also a 


73 


WHIRLWIND 


74 

very silent one. Aylmer recollected a dreary, tiresome 
journey; and the house he and his mother had finally 
reached as singularly sunless and dull. He only remem¬ 
bered grave, serious people, and a gauntness about every¬ 
thing that hurt his child’s mind and took away any desire 
to run about and laugh. But the curious change in his 
mother had been what most impressed him. She had ap¬ 
peared strangely shy, almost diffident. 

As to his own father, tears stood in the boy’s eyes as 
he remembered how bravely his mother had braced herself 
to tell him “everything he ought to know because he had 
the right to hear.” But she had begged that once the 
subject was closed it should never be re-opened between 
them. Little she had revealed, but that little had been 
almost more than she could bear to tell. 

Darling and best of mothers! Where is another like 
you? 

Girls, of course, were another and different matter. 
Aylmer never thought to make comparison between Katie 
and his mother. He loved the girl as the mate he desired 
to take unto himself while his mother would ever remain 
the woman to whom he owed an almost unpayable debt, 
and that very debt—since it was unpayable—formed 
something of inequality in their relations. 

Thus he came to the real cause of all the success and 
happiness he had won in his short life—the early train¬ 
ing his mother had given. And all unconsciously by us¬ 
ing the past “had,” he put his mother a little in the back¬ 
ground. Her work complete—it was time for him to go 
on alone, or not alone, as Fate decided. 

But how he meant to repay her some day! To give 
her proof beyond contention—that all she had done so 
heartily had been well worth the doing. 



WHIRLWIND 


75 


How tolerantly she had borne with him! How wisely 
she had corrected him! With what tact she had led him 
out of boyhood into manhood! 

Beautiful, graceful woman! Could you have seen into 
your boy’s heart at that moment you would have under¬ 
stood how cordially he recognised all that your mother¬ 
hood had been to him those first three and twenty years 
of his life. 

* * * * * 

Her last letter lay beside him on the table, the same 
letter he had mentioned to Katie only an hour or so ago 
at Flintshire House. He read it again, and with deeper 
understanding, keener insight. It began, as her letters 
always had begun, “My darling Boy,” and from begin¬ 
ning to end but one thought ran through the whole, one 
object alone was in sight—the ultimate success, the last¬ 
ing happiness of “my darling boy.” And something he 
gathered of the spirit pleading in silence, telling the pathos 
of mother love, so strong in its weakness, so tender in its 
pride, and as he read he felt a truer wisdom, a keener 
vision, a firmer sense of independence. Yet he knew that 
something very fair had gone from him. For now he was 
more of a man, and in becoming more of a man he had 
also become a little of a judge. 

The freer life of the past year, the intercourse with 
men and women of the big world, but above all, the new¬ 
found love for a woman (that great revelation only once 
to be revealed in life), and all the subleties that appertain 
to marriage, these things took him from boyhood into 
manhood at one leap. 

So, as he read his mother’s letter, he weighed argu¬ 
ments ; he saw fallacies, and the result of the whole could 


76 


WHIRLWIND 


be summed up in the one word, judgment. Aylmer had 
never felt more truly, tenderly, solicitous; only the simple 
trust, the ready careless acquiescence of his youth, had 
gone from him for ever. 

He picked up the letter again, and read till he came to 
the passages about Antrobus, and then he noticed that, 
definite as her warning was she yet brought no particular 
charge against him. It almost seemed as though she had 
expected instant obedience, prompt submission to her 
greater knowledge and wider experience without any 
questioning, and Aylmer for the first time in his life 
found he was criticising his mother, weighing her argu¬ 
ments and finding them a little wanting. 

“She doesn’t realise my luck, that I’m just beginning to 
get my nose in!” 

And as he spoke there crept in unto him yet a little 
further a new, strange sense of protection. No longer 
dependent on his mother, constantly in the presence of a 
personality so commanding as Desmond’s, meeting with 
others of like character, much of their influence, their 
force and authority had been absorbed by his own men¬ 
tality, and he felt a wider knowledge and a deeper experi¬ 
ence was his than could be known to the gentle, anxious 
woman, so placid and unemotional in her life. 

Yet while he pronounced sentence, he placed a halo and 
a crown upon her, and in some way, not quite to be de¬ 
fined, she seemed to stand more in need of his love than 
ever. 

And the letter that had been so carefully read but a 
moment back fell to the ground, unheeded, and with all 
its incomparable love lay there forgotten, while Aylmer 
glanced into a wonderful book that was both new and 
very beautiful, for Katie was the heroine and he the hero, 


WHIRLWIND 


77 


and the course of true love ran smoothly, even as the 
streams of Fordcombe. 

But at length the full sun stood forth, and the watcher 
turned sleepy though not tired to bed. Much had been 
! taught him, and never could he be just what he had been 
before the lesson learnt in the early hours in that quiet 
little room. 




Yet down in the south, in the land of flowers, and not 
far from the warm, clear sea, a woman sat planning a 
happy career for her son through the help of certain 
kindly influential folk. She made no doubt that he would 
come, she had even begun to count the days until she could 
have him again all to herself. 

Undoubtedly a very lovely woman, and Aylmer had 
not exaggerated in his description. And the man who sat 
beside her, and bent somewhat with a proprietary air 
towards her, was clearly of the boy’s opinion. What a 
delicious turn of the head! What a bewitching smile she 
lighted on her companion, and with what a soft little 
laugh she answered to his questions! You would never 
credit she had a lad of twenty-three. 

At length she rose, and walked the full length of the 
terrace till she reached the house, and the man turned to 
watch her pass and see how graciously she went as one 
born moving gracefully before crowds. Hers was not 
merely the beauty of feature. There was a magic of 
movement and a charm about her that would remain when 


all else had gone. 

Yes, it was a rare woman! Beautiful, vital, distin¬ 
guished too. Only Aylmer had made one great mistake 
—he had underrated her judgment. 





78 


WHIRLWIND 


That woman on the terrace was quite capable of form¬ 
ing a correct opinion, nor would she have spent her 
energy warning Aylmer against Antrobus had she not 
known of some very adequate reason. 


Vui 


The great difficulty in telling a story about people in 
divers parts of the world is the discursiveness in which 
the good folk indulge. While A goes rambling down the 
lane, B takes a short cut across country, and C—whose 
company we seek with tears—has whirled away over our 
heads in an aeroplane and is coquettishly landing in some 
unknown spot. 

And now, behold! even the Dalisons, from whom one 
might expect some consideration, have packed up their 
trunks and gone off to Fordcombe; while Fell has chosen 
that very moment to pack his bag and run up to town! 

The very first morning he was free he called on the 
eminent firm, Messrs. Dunstable, Ronalds and Wil¬ 
loughby, and informed them how Sir Desmond (who 
knew nothing of his wife’s history after her departure) 
was now anxious to learn if he could get his freedom at 
this late hour. 

But surely it is this very wife herself who demands 
more attention than an occasional and a casual reference 
to her existence ? 

But Desmond’s wife is surely a wraith from another 
world? Well, I’m not so certain, she seems very real at 
the present moment. So real, indeed, that she can hold 
a very real mirror, and, with a smile so delightful we 
hope that too is real, she looks upon us as she bids us gaze 
into the mirror that we may learn what she has been doing 
79 


8o 


WHIRLWIND 


all this time. But I must warn you, we shall be far from 
the fragrance of roses and lavender, and very remote 
indeed from the settled order and dignity of such people 
as the Duchess of Hampshire, Lord St. Osyth, or even 
Augusta, Lady Alaburton. 

If we see money lavished, it will not be the controlled 
and disciplined spending we met with at Flintshire House. 
But we shall see splendour and some extravagant settings 
and, if we find ourselves occasionally blushing at what we 
see, I will hope that while / understand you do not. And 
you, of course, will hope just the same about me. 

Let us therefore begin, and so, step by step, come to the 
present moment, and thus on and down to the inevitable 
conclusion that must be when the human will sets itself 
up in defiance against the immutable. 

And yet how extraordinarily fascinating are these 
same who defy the laws! How we secretly long to have 
but one quarter of their courage, one fraction of their 
audacity. There is surely something fine about rebellion. 
The sheep huddle contemptibly in their folds, but the 
“fiery untamed steed” races over the plain. 

Desmond and his wife married at an absurdly youth¬ 
ful age and their mutual stock of capital had chiefly con¬ 
sisted of ardour and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, all this 
efficiency, instead of behaving nicely and uniting the 
young people, only served to pull them in opposite direc¬ 
tions. 

While he had been a boy undergoing the literary phase, 
so common to very young men, she had been longing to 
enter the world of riches and revel in luxury and plenty. 

Why, then, did she choose so impecunious a bride¬ 
groom? Well! the lovely lady will give the true answer: 
“Just because I was in too great a hurry.” 


WHIRLWIND 


81 


Poor child! At nineteen she had been in a very des¬ 
perate hurry—and with all the strength of nineteen had 
battled madly, and ever silently—to get out of her poor, 
middle-class surroundings and into a wider, softer, more 
affluent life, a life, though unknown to her experience, 
vivid and quick to her understanding. 

In their early days of courtship, Desmond would occa¬ 
sionally speak of certain of his relations, and Jessica very 
quickly discovered how enviably wealthy those same rela¬ 
tions were; and what a very important position Messrs. 
Hobbs and Antrobus’s firm held in the city. 

Some fleeting glimpse had been caught by her of the 
glories displayed by the ladies of the house. She had 
read of a certain Hon. Mrs. Tom Antrobus, and her 
presence at sundry big parties. Nor was the firm loath to 
let the world at large know what excellent wares it had to 
sell. The very name smelt of money, and to Jessica’s 
nostrils the scent had a very pleasant savour. 

Later on she discovered “Cousin Hugh,” the head of 
the firm, to be not only Desmond’s cousin, but also his 
godfather, and—as though that were not enough—a 
bachelor and extremely attached to his erratic relation; 
nay, he had even made certain overtures to young Des¬ 
mond which fairly dazzled the poor girl who only knew 
the rigours and restrictions of a poor, provincial rectory. 
Can you blame her if she cried: “Here is a chance not 
to be missed if it is going abegging?” When Desmond 
talked of books and his own ambition, Jessica would 
say: “Once his wife, I’ll soon see those old manuscripts 
burned.” 

And thus she straightway broke one of the immutable 
laws, never thinking it would one day join together and 
prove a rod for her own back. 


82 


WHIRLWIND 


And what of Desmond’s own family? What had they 
to say to this early marriage with an impecunious no¬ 
body? 

Well, there had been much wagging of heads and dire 
bodings in a family conclave between the various mem¬ 
bers of the Antrobuses and the Hobbs. Desmond was 
voted a fool, and the presents his relations gave him when 
he married sufficiently expressed their opinion of him. 
Not one of them felt called upon to attend the wedding, 
or to take any notice of the young people when they 
came to live in town. 

Here, however, Cousin Hugh had spoken with no un¬ 
certain voice. He announced that a family dinner party 
must be given in honour of the young bride, and a cer¬ 
tain Aunt Elinor had agreed with him. 

“Of course it is very sad that dear Desmond should 
have thrown himself away and given up all his prospects, 
but, after all, the boy has not married a barmaid and if 
you wish it, dear Hugh, it shall be done.” 

“It is only the proper thing, Elinor. Besides, we all 
want to see what the girl is like.” 

“We are not obliged to see much of her,” said Aunt 
Elinor, in her comfortable, purring voice. “I hear she’s 
lived at Towchester all her life.” 

For that matter Aunt Elinor had lived in Chester 
Square all her life, but she would have told you Chester 
Square was not close to anything that she was aware. 
Jessica would have answered that she knew very well 
what it was close to, and very intimately allied with; in 
fact, to her mind the two places were synonymous, but to 
have mentioned the name of this latter place—which 
possesses but one syllable and not many more letters— 
would have shocked Aunt Elinor who had only read of 


WHIRLWIND 83 

it in the Bible—and Jessica would never dream of shock¬ 
ing anyone who might be useful. 

“I want to see her,” said young Mrs. Tom. “These 
sort of freaks are always amusing if taken in home¬ 
opathic doses. Do ask them, Aunt Elinor, and Tom and 
I will come too.” 

Mrs. Tom made this gracious offer with the kindly air 
of a great lady. She was a pretty little woman and knew 
it. She was a smart little woman and knew that. In fact, 
she was the one real star in the family. Greatly had Tom 
Antrobus risen in the esteem of his family when his en¬ 
gagement had been announced to Lord Ashurst’s younger 
daughter. For though the firm was of old standing and 
the members thereof were wealthy, yet for one of those 
curious reasons so hard to define, the Antrobus family 
had remained obscure. Possibly they were too respect¬ 
able. 

Perhaps they hadn’t quite enough money, perhaps they 
didn’t care. Whatever the reason, there they were— 
somewhat like Mahomet’s coffin, swaying between two 
worlds. 

As Mrs. Tom seconded the proposal it was passed 
unanimously; but do not think that Aunt Elinor or 
Cousin Hugh were snobs. They were far too kind- 
hearted and simple. And after all, it is preferable to have 
connections born in the best bedroom to those who saw 
the light first in one of the attics, say what you will. 

Aunt Elinor sighed a little as she looked at this pretty, 
self-assured and well turned-out young person. 

“If only Desmond had waited. He is better bred and 
pleasanter than Tom. He too might have made a good 
match,” and then, as she caught Hugh’s eye, “What he 
might have done for Desmond,” thought she. 


84 WHIRLWIND 

“What he can do for Tom,” thought that gentleman’s 
wife. 

It was whispered in the family that Cousin Hugh had 
once been in love with Desmond’s mother, and for her 
sake had never married, and that was the reason of his 
affection for his godson. Perhaps Aunt Elinor knew 
something of the truth. She was a romantic lady and 
always particularly cordial to the old bachelor who loved 
to sit in her pretty, comfortable drawing-room and look 
at the portrait of Desmond’s mother over the fireplace, 
at least, that is the impression I got from Miss Antrobus, 
who told me once: “Hugh always sat in a particular arm¬ 
chair whence he could see the picture in a good light.” 

So the old gentleman beamed on Mrs. Tom and thought 
after all she had a kind heart, and was more than the 
piquante little person he had taken her to be. 

Yes, Cousin Hugh, but you and your kind are always 
the victims of “piquante little women.” They twist you 
round their fingers and turn you inside out and put 
you back again—just as you were—all so quickly you 
never discover what’s been done to you. 

Did you really think Mrs. Tom cared the least for 
Desmond or had the smallest desire to behold the new 
bride ? 

Was it not to her interest to gratify you? And as your 
heart seemed set on a family party, well, by all means 
you should be humoured. Also, dear sir, you will see 
how irretrievably Desmond has done for himself, and you 
shall sit through a whole dinner next to his plain, unin¬ 
teresting, badly-dressed wife. 

Oh, Mrs. Tom could picture the party in advance. 
Kindly host trying (and failing utterly) to put at ease 
the nervous, nondescript-haired, young person, whose one 


WHIRLWIND 


85 


idea of dress was economy, and who sat fidgeting with 
her bread, painfully upright, an apologetic smile on her 
unpowdered face. She will grow duller and duller (in 
spite of dear little Mrs. Tom’s patronising endeavours 
to draw her out). Conversation will languish till it faints 
with the sweets and dies agonisingly amidst the peaches 
and grapes. 

And then, after dinner, when the men—dimly aware 
all is not well—shall have joined the ladies, oh, then they 
will take refuge in a little music! 

“Haven’t we heard you play the violin? You have 
brought it ? Oh, good!” 

And dear, busy, bustling little Mrs. Tom (who is so 
sweetly trying to make things “go”) will hurry away to 
fetch it, and they will all listen to “dear” Jessica’s music. 
(“Gounod’s ‘Ave Maria’ or Raff’s ‘Cavatina,’ I should 
expect. Can’t I hear her amateurish, squeaky tones, and 
see her red elbows!”) 

And when Jessica shall have finished her squeaking, 
then they will all clap their hands and cry “How sweet!” 
and Mrs. Tom (who is an admirable pianist herself) 
will not dream of playing after that. Then, thoroughly 
exhausted, they will all go home. 

And all these kindly thoughts, thought Mrs. Tom 
(dear, cheery little soul) and smiled when she remem¬ 
bered Cousin Hugh had a real love for music and con¬ 
siderable knowledge thereof. And one day quite soon 
after, she will send a charming little note saying she 
thinks the new relation “sweet” and is so sorry that 
“dear” Jessica and Desmond cannot dine on the third 
(for the simple but unmentionable reason that they have 
not been and never will be asked). “But won’t you come ? 
No party! but Lamowski has offered to bring his ’cello.” 


86 


WHIRLWIND 


And, dear Cousin Hugh, you will most certainly go, 
and you will find a charming hostess (in a new frock 
from Paris, but you won’t know that, only that “Maud 
looks very well to-night”) and a very cheery host as well. 
The dinner will be excellent. The conversation will be 
easy and such as will make you feel young again. 

And afterwards Mrs. Tom will play (and she can 
play); Lamowski will enchant you; and, finally, when 
the time comes to say good-night, Maud will beam sweetly 
and press your hand ever so slightly, and (almost before 
you are out of the house) will she discuss with her hus¬ 
band whether or no the hour has struck wherein he should 
break to you that “little matter of business” he has in 
his mind. 

And you, good, easy man, will never see the little web 
the clever little spider spun, nay was even spinning as 
you handed her bread and butter at Aunt Elinor’s. 

Excellent woman! Pattern wife! Unselfishly striving 
after your husband’s good! Would there were more like 
you! 

But could you have seen Jessica Antrobus before this 
meeting at Aunt Elinor’s, and could you have heard her 
play; would you have been quite so unselfish, and so un¬ 
worldly in pursuit of your husband s advancements ? I 
wonder! 


IX 


But before the dinner came the wedding, and I must 
tell you about that. Jessica had decreed a very short en¬ 
gagement, and when her bridegroom proposed this or 
that person as bridesmaid or guest, she quickly but very 
frankly negatived any such idea. 

“It’s a long way for them to come/’ she said, “and I 
don’t want any bridesmaid except Sophie’s little girls.” 

But the truth had been she was in mortal terror lest the 
two families met, and the contrast that Desmond’s folk 
would present to her own shabby provincial belongings 
had uprisen in awful menace to her eyes. 

Well could she picture the greetings and efforts of her 
relatives to entertain the distinctly overwhelming folk 
from town. Well could she imagine the awkward, over¬ 
done solicitude of the elders, and the gauche advances 
of the younger people. 

And when, on the eventful day, she found herself 
standing at the chancel steps, and caught sight of her re¬ 
lations and their hats, well, she was more than ever thank¬ 
ful to have kept as many of Desmond’s friends away as 
she decently could. 

“Fanny’s white frock is quite all right,” she noted, 
“but why has she got that heavy puce coloured velvet hat ? 
It quite swamps her small features which are rather 
pretty.” 

$he longed to snatch the velvet complication off little 
87 


88 WHIRLWIND 

Fanny’s head and change it for Aunt Methusaleh’s girl¬ 
ish straw. 

Aunt Methusaleh herself, shrill, skimpy and skittish, 
beamed and enthused on one and all. She talked, she 
ordered about! She inquired after absent relatives and 
waxed eloquent over the bridegroom’s literary gifts! 

“A genius, dear Jessica assures me. So interesting, 
you know.” 

Yes, I think Jessica showed wisdom in confining the 
invitations to as few of her relatives as possible. 

The angels must laugh sometimes, or they would be 
for ever weeping, and the devil gets a lot of quiet amuse¬ 
ment out of the celestial spheres, but I rather think he 
pities poor humanity upon the whole. 

I’m sure he was sorry for Jessica and tried his best 
to make her life gayer; but that’s all in the future, and 
we are still at the wedding, with Desmond nervous at 
the chancel, and the guests in the church all nodding and 
beckoning as they recognise each other dotted about. 

And what a church! Nothing there to brighten the 
eye, rejoice the heart, or raise the mind to the glory of 
creation. One did not feel better, but rather the worse 
for entering a place wherein one could not lift up the 
heart in gratitude or praise, but which one left with an 
aching head, and general sense of depression. 

But what is the light coming up the aisle from the open 
west door, as the choir comes slowly on singing “The 
voice that breathed o’er Eden?” What magnet is this 
that draws every eye and causes even the unimaginative 
congregation to feel in the presence of some visitor from 
another world—a world they revere while they deprecate, 
and are for ever uncertain whether connection therewith 
is a source of congratulation or shame. 


WHIRLWIND 


89 


Slowly she comes, perfectly self-possessed, glorious as 
a young queen. Even Desmond is astonished at her 
beauty. He could have sworn she had grown taller. She 
seemed to move forward without putting one foot before 
the other, and when she met him, and smiled, it was as 
though the sun shone. A little ripple of amazement 
passed over the congregation, and then it settled down to 
the business of the afternoon. 

The patron of the living had given his vicar’s daugh¬ 
ter a couple of very beautiful white Chinese shawls, and 
these Jessica wore for her wedding dress, draped 
about her after an old picture. 

The frock, perfectly in place at St. George’s or St. 
Peter’s, was for that very reason utterly unsuitable to its 
surroundings. And the fashion of it was a cause for 
scandal and sniffing amongst the relatives. 

But Jessica was dressing the part for a future run in 
town, and not the solitary trial matinee in the country. 

In London, when dining with her husband’s people, 
she would be expected to wear her wedding dress, and 
she intended to do herself credit when she dined with 
her husband’s people. 

Thus passed she through the slightly scandalised 
friends, acutely divided between censure and a rather 
gaspy admiration, but altogether united in a very dis¬ 
turbing sense of astonishment at such a very wonderful 

bride. 

And it was this frock she wore at her first dinner party, 
and admirably it suited her. I do not mean it was a very 
remarkable creation (Jessica had many a more marvel¬ 
lous garb later on in her life) ; it was simple, but ex¬ 
tremely good. 

Desmond had been for putting on white waistcoat and 


90 


WHIRLWIND 


making a gala of the occasion, but his wife had laugh¬ 
ingly taken it out of his hand and given him dinner 
jacket and black tie instead. 

“They said just a few relations—no party. Don’t let 
them think it’s a great occasion for us. It’s all very well 
for me to wear my wedding dress. The dinner, such as 
it is, is in my honour. As a bride I’m expected to wear it. 
Besides, I haven’t another.” 

And like the good young husband he was, Desmond 
had done as his wife had ordered. But he had great 
qualms as he followed Jessica up the stairs and passed 
into the softly lit and comfortable drawing-room. How¬ 
ever, there was Tom leaning against the mantelpiece and 
in the same dress as himself, and Desmond felt content 
again. 

Little Mrs. Tom did not wear her best frock by any 
means that night; but most decidedly she had taken care 
to choose a very becoming one. And she saw to it that 
they arrived in very excellent time. She considered the 
best role for her to play would be that of a kindly, delight¬ 
ful, but distinctly smart woman of the world. To this 
end she had taken special pains to be very simple, but very 
distinguished and, as I have hinted, she had thoroughly 
succeeded. 

Before the chief guests arrived, she spread a gentle 
gaiety, a modish worldliness. She sparkled with a hun¬ 
dred little graces, and delighted everyone—but especially 
Cousin Hugh—with the charm of her company. She 
made herself into a delightful picture and told Cousin 
Hugh an amusing anecdote (quite new and not altogether 
unconnected with Royalty). She kissed Aunt Elinor on 
both cheeks and some of the others on one, and then sat 
on a low stool by the fire, from the blaze of which she 





WHIRLWIND 


9i 


sheltered her carefully arranged face by a delicate little 
fan held in a delicate and perfectly manicured little hand. 

In short, to quote her husband’s own words: “She 
spread herself freely to one and all.” 

The chief guests were late, conversation slacked, 
eyes glanced surreptitiously at the clock. Mrs. Tom grew 
angry. 

She felt the effect she had created was wearing off. 
People wanted their dinner and not her flow of small 
talk. 

Kind old Cousin Hugh said Battersea was a long way 
off. Aunt Elinor wondered what could have hindered the 
bride and bridegroom. 

Then at last a ring, and a certain thrill of excitement 
stirred through the party. After all, it was a bride they 
were expecting! And one now a member of their family. 
They could not altogether avoid a thrill. Mrs. Tom pre¬ 
pared to annihilate the foe instantly and utterly. It was 
to be a short, sharp frontal attack under a screen of the 
sweetest of smiles. 

Her husband saw himself sitting next the bride at 
dinner and wondered what on earth he should say to a 
raw girl from the country. Somewhat similar thoughts 
engaged the minds of others, even Aunt Elinor feared the 
party might be a mistake; and a certain Laura Hobbs 
picturing Jessica’s awkward apologies voted the whole 
affair an unmitigated nuisance. 

Suddenly Mrs. Tom had a brain-wave. Was the bride 
late on purpose? She was an unconscionable time com¬ 
ing upstairs, and bashful provincialism, if it chanced to 
be late (which it rarely did) usually stumbled over its 
frock in its haste to reach its hostess. No, this was the 
prerogative some petted beauty permitted herself. 


92 


WHIRLWIND 


And in truth, Jessica had had no intention of arriving 
except just in time to go down to dinner. Desmond it 
was who fidgeted and did the apologising—when the time 
came. 

And when it came! When at last the butler threw 
open the drawing-room door, with an air, and announced: 
“Mr. and Mrs. Desmond Antrobus” so that it became 
nearly a shout of “Here she is and isn’t she a beauty?’’ 
Heavens! What an eclipse did one and all endure! 

Little Mrs. Tom stopped dead in the middle of a sen¬ 
tence. Surely this was a joke? This exquisite glamorous 
creature was the daughter of kings, not a child from a 
small provincial town no one had ever heard of. 

Tom straightened himself and gave a pat to his tie. 
Frank wondered if Towchester did much in that sort 
of way, while Laura frankly stared. Aunt Elinor smiled, 
as though a great princess had come into the room, and 
Cousin Hugh hastened forward with both hands extended 
in welcome. 

And Jessica? Far from apologising for being late, 
she condescended to accept the excuses of Aunt Elinor 
for the smallness of the party and, in lieu of being ner¬ 
vous, appeared to Mrs. Tom’s sharp eyes actually to be 
putting Cousin Hugh at his ease, who was blundering 
over some old-fashioned compliment to this incomparable 
young goddess so evidently—and to Mrs. Tom’s mind 
rather blatantly—above such things. 

And Jessica stood, triumphant in her beauty, receiving 
their homage, like some gracious deity deigning to visit 
the temple her worshippers had raised to her honour. 

To each in turn she gave her slow, dazzling smile, on 
each the lovely long-lashed violet eyes rested in kindly 
consideration; to this one she threw a word such as 



WHIRLWIND 


93 


“Desmond told me of you,” and the foolish fellow felt 
as proud as though his sovereign had spoken to him for 
five minutes. 

Then the shapely white hand was given to Frank, who 
bent over it as would a favourite at an Imperial Court. 
Oh! and it was all done so perfectly, so naturally. There 
was no effort about it. Jessica was merely herself, obvi¬ 
ously quite unconscious of her own charm and beauty and 
of the sensation she created. 

So easy was she that when dinner was announced and 
she went down with her host, she continued her ripple 
of conversation. Smiling over her shoulder with a gay 
word for the couple behind. And her success continued 
through the dinner. Imperceptibly she became at once, 
and remained through the meal, the centre of attraction. 

Where and oh, where was the nervous girl who would 
scarcely know which knife and fork to use? Where, and 
oh where, the fidgety smile and the nervous crumbling 
of bread? Where, too, the obvious anxiety to make a 
good impression, and the general ill-at-ease that surely 
this young thing from Towchester should have exhibited? 

Where, indeed, Mrs. Tom? 

You may swear in your inmost heart, and you will 
rightly swear, that this was the very first dinner party 
that Jessica had ever attended in her life. You may take 
your oath (and with a safe conscience) that never before 
had she trod on such carpets, or seen such silver, eaten 
such food, or been waited on so deftly and silently. She 
had never met till now such a smart woman as yourself, 
to be sure; nor had she ever been bathed in such comfort 
and ease. It was all quite new to her; her first experi¬ 
ence of what wealth and taste could accomplish, and it 
was as different from what she had been brought up to 


94 


WHIRLWIND 


as your own surroundings, in your old home of Ashurst, 
were different to those of your father’s kitchen-maid. 

And yet the young person accepted it all as her due, 
and even contrived to give an impression that she would 
be more at home amidst greater luxury, greater wealth, 
and more distinguished company. 

Aunt Elinor looked on with real kindness but some 
anxiety. This new revelation was something quite ex¬ 
ceptional. She had seen others with as beautiful a skm, 
and Jessica’s features were no more delicate than, say, 
the famous Mrs. Palliser’s; yet Miss Antrobus could re¬ 
call no one who combined so much in herself, no one 
with so much natural charm and dignity, or who could 
have contrived, as Jessica had certainly done, to give the 
drawing-room in Chester Square that atmosphere of a 
throne-room, and instantaneously turn the well-placed 
respectable guests into humble suppliants at the foot of 
that throne. 

From the bride Aunt Elinor looked to the bridegroom. 
Bright and happy was he, delighted at his wife’s success. 

“He is a dear lad,” thought the old lady, “but head¬ 
strong and obstinate. Was he the right man for such a 
wife? Would he know how to guide and govern and 
hold his own?” 

Again Miss Antrobus looked at the young wife, and 
this time she shook her head. There was that about Jes¬ 
sica that made the dear soul afraid. Something, maybe, 
too suggestive of sovereignty—it was very indefinite, but 
quite palpable. 

It seemed incredible such a miracle could have hap¬ 
pened in such a place as Towchester. Aunt Elinor be¬ 
gan to wonder if Jessica’s proper sphere was not one 
where Chester Square, the Antrobus family, she herself 


WHIRLWIND 


95 


and all of them, would seem as dowdy and humdrum as 
Towchester and the vicarage must appear from the more 
lofty heights of Chester Square. 

And Mrs. Tom! Well, she did not move in the great 
world for nothing. She too acknowledged the beauty and 
authority that held them all in its grip. She too wondered 
if it would be content to wait till Desmond’s genius wove 
a wreath of laurel for its brow. Looking at her, Mrs. 
Tom thought Jessica would probably prefer diamonds to 
any amount of laurel. 

Then Mrs. Tom looked at the host, beaming with pride 
and delight on his godson’s wife. Mrs. Tom bit her lip. 

And when the ladies went upstairs matters—from the 
enemy point of view—did not much improve there. 
When one or two ladies began talking about their en¬ 
gagements with the kindly intention of making the young 
bride uncomfortable—that young woman simply sat 
silent, looking extremely lovely and apparently quite con¬ 
tent to listen. 

One cousin, greatly daring, asked horrid questions 
about Towchester. But Jessica soon put her in her 
proper place. She explained everything and spared 
nothing. 

“The rectory is dreadfully shabby,” said the candid 
young lady. “The Ecclesiastical Commissioners won’t do 
anything.” And then she turned to the parishioners and 
gave such amusing sketches of those odd people that she 
became nearly as successful in the drawing-room as she 
had been in the dining-room. 

I don’t believe she enjoyed looking back on a detested 
past; possibly the experience was still too recent to be 
seen in its proper perspective; anyway, she was very glad 
when the men joined them. 


96 


WHIRLWIND 


“And have you brought your violin, Jessica? asked 
Cousin Hugh. 

“Yes; do you want me to play?” 

“If you will, my dear.” 

And with Jessica’s music away flew Mrs. Tom’s last 
hope. This extraordinary young woman was a musician! 
and in her husband’s godfather she had an audience who 
could discriminate. 

For him Jessica did her best, not only because he might 
be useful and helpful, and not entirely because he had been 
very kind and she was grateful, but because she had 
found a brother in art, who loved her music for its own 
sake. 

And lo! Jessica became another woman! Gone the 
cool sovereignty, the “something” that had puzzled Aunt 
Elinor, and in place thereof stood a radiant, triumphant, 
passionate woman—glorious in her beauty, more exquis¬ 
ite than before. 

To a fellow artist an artist always gives his best. Jes¬ 
sica played, rejoicing in the discovery of such a listener 
as her host. At first Mrs. Tom had accompanied, but 
Jessica warmed by the old man’s enthusiasm, played from 
her repertoire works Mrs. Tom felt awe at the mere 
mention of and could no more have played at sight than 
she could have jumped over the moon. 

Tom and Frank and the other men knew nothing about 
music and cared less. What they did know and did care 
about was the swaying figure, the movement of the 
lovely arm, the tilt of the head, and the wonderful things 
that looked out of the violet eyes. 

When the hour of good-bye came, the host arranged 
for another dinner and a professional to play Jessica’s 
accompaniments. Mrs. Tom offered to call and drive her 


WHIRLWIND 


97 


to Ranelagh. Laura Hobbs was insistent they should 
lunch together and do an afternoon’s shopping. In fact, 
the whole family tumbled over itself to honour the new 
relation. 

And to all, Jessica returned the same smile, the same 
gay little word; and as she had arrived, so she departed, 
amidst homage and praise, laughing and glancing up the 
stairs to Aunt Elinor and with a last nod and look for 
Cousin Hugh. 

A veritable Cinderella, she went home to an untidy 
little house in an untidy little street (and oh! how loath¬ 
some it looked on her return!) to plan and contrive, and 
eat her heart out and ,begin to wonder—yes, to wonder 
—whether after all she had not married in rather a 
hurry. 


X 


But nothing came of the famous dinner. Mrs. Tom 
certainly kept her word and took Jessica to Ranelagh. 
But she only took her once. She failed to appreciate 
giving a poor relation a glimpse of Paradise, only to find 
that obscure relative more at home there than herself, 
and a recipient of the most flattering attentions from 
the archangels. 

Neither had Laura Hobbs perceived the superlative 
joy of shopping with a woman who drew the eyes of all 
beholders from herself. Nor had Jessica found it humor¬ 
ous helping a tasteless woman with too much cash choose 
expensive clothes she longed for greatly herself, but saw 
no chance of possessing. 

The two cousins had parted at the corner of Bond 
Street; the one to return home in her limousine, the 
other in a crowded Battersea bus. Laura to dine and 
dance at Claridge’s, and Jessica to spend the evening en¬ 
deavouring to turn a frock of loathsome cut into a Pari¬ 
sian model. 

She didn’t tell Laura this, she merely remarked: “How 
nice! I always like Claridge’s, don’t you?” as though 
she herself went frequently. But as a matter of fact, 
the poor girl didn’t even know the way to it. 

No wonder Jessica had come home rather cross that 
afternoon. 

Occasionally they still received invitations to some of 
98 



WHIRLWIND 


99 


the relations houses, and what a success was Jessica’s 
then. Some of Desmond’s elderly relatives feared it 
might “turn her head.” “How should it?” Jessica would 
say when Desmond repeated, half in fun, what had been 
told him seriously. “Of course, it was quite a nice party 
and much better done than I expected, but it was scarcely 
the sort of thing to be mentioned in the papers to-mor¬ 
row.” 

And Desmond would only laugh, remembering her life 
before she married him, when an occasional tennis party 
of the smallest description was all she had to look forward 
to. 

But these festivities fell off in course of time. It can¬ 
not be said she gave people much encouragement to look 
her up. The truth being she hated that people should see 
her in the mangy surroundings of Battersea. 

From time to time an august relative would announce 
his or her arrival on a certain day to tea, and that meant 
for Jessica endless preparations. 

Sarah,” she would explain to the “girl” who waited 
on them, “we shall want tea the day after to-morrow for 
three people! Have you—er—have you a clean apron?” 

A clean apron, m-m?” quoth Sarah, as though such 
things were only worn by the angels in Heaven. 

“Perhaps Mrs. Fletcher will give you one. But I will 

cut the bread and butter and—er-” But it was no use 

going on. She knew the teapot would be the “best,” a 
thing of unhealthy colour, with a loose and complicated 
knob atop the lid. 

So she did not encourage visitors, except those Bo¬ 
hemian friends who cared not for Sarah’s delinquencies. 
But they were people rather too reminiscent of her former 
life, and in time Jessica grew to loathe the sight of them. 


100 


WHIRLWIND 


Thus gradually—but very surely—the Desmond Antro- 
buses sank to the position of poor relations. 

She became twenty-two one day! And when, after 
about two and a half years of married life, Jessica found 
herself contemplating the probability of twenty-two years 
more (at the very least, with nothing but an undis¬ 
tinguished grave waiting for her at the end, well, then 
Jessica began to think; and sometimes to mope. It must 
be admitted hers was not a very alluring prospect for a 
lovely woman to contemplate. Twenty-two knows very 
well that twenty-two is getting on for twenty-five—the 
halfway place to the dignified port of thirty. 

Now a man may remain a boy till he’s eighty, because 
Peter Pans only belong to the male sex. But girls are 
only girls by courtesy after thirty. Then they become 
young women, and more charming than ever, and nine¬ 
teen, or twenty-two or any age they like at a moment’s 
notice. 

For let a man be as old as he feels, no woman is ever 
as old as she looks; she will tell you so herself, and if she 
doesn’t know, who should? 

Only the other day at a party, Lady Mary Gordon 
Jones was heard to say that of course to grow old was 
very sad. “But really, you know, to look old in these 
days is absurdly slipshod.” 

And yet the other night I saw Lady Mary looking dis¬ 
tinctly older than she could have intended when she left 
home that evening. Probably her maid had left something 
out, if so, it was certainly remembered the next evening 
when her ladyship looked radiantly lovely at the opera— 
if your glasses were not too strong. 

It is simple and easy for you, good Christian that you 
are who read this book, to condemn our poor Jessica and 


WHIRLWIND 


IOI 


say: “She should have been content with that state of life 
into which it had pleased God to call her.” That is a 
question of what you call Life. 

Jessica called Life “Something of infinite possibility. 
To be felt and lived, not stunted and blunted and finally 
extinguished.” 

See her now, with glowing resentful eyes. It is a dan¬ 
gerous and ugly mood. But was she altogether blame¬ 
worthy ? And she really tried her best. She ordered her 
husband’s dinners; saw to his comfort and even tried to 
darn his socks. But all the time she cried “Cui bono-” 
All the time she fretted. 

The barmaid type of girl would have made a “scene” 
and “thrown things.” Perhaps it might have been the 
best thing that could have happened. A good fight would 
have led to something, and a good conflagration is in¬ 
finitely better than smouldering fire. 

She should have been patient? That’s an easy direc¬ 
tion to give, and one very hard of execution when you are 
only twenty-two. Of course, with an adequate income, 
and congenial surroundings, the various little pin-pricks 
do not count very much. The house you live in may be 
tiny, but it is smart. You may have but one servant, 
but that one knows how to open the door, and announce 
visitors. 

Your husband may be only hanging on to success by 
the hem of her garment, and that elusive nymph may even 
succeed in slipping his grasp. What of that? Have you 
not in your hand a bit of her raiment? 

And verily it is something to have gained even that 
much. 

Jessica could have been patient too, had she been in the 
right place. But she was far from it. She had thought 


102 


WHIRLWIND 


it would be quite a simple thing after marriage to get 
Desmond to take up a business career. But in that mat¬ 
ter he proved adamant, and insisted on having at least 
a fair trial. Yet the good girl could not complain that 
she had married in ignorance. He had explained the 
life he meant to live. If she chose to marry on specula¬ 
tion, surely she had no one to blame if the speculation 
didn’t come off? 

“I detest small means. Our whole existence is squalid 
and drab,” Jessica would say in a moment of petulance. 

Alas! Such occasions grew more and more frequent. 

Desmond would reply: “You speak rather strongly, old 
girl. Give us a chance.” 

■He was a very charming boy in those days. But the 
charm only irritated a girl who was not of an age to see 
the tragedy of talent misplaced. To pity and judge fairly 
at the same time, to resent waste and not overblame the 
squanderer, takes the experience and understanding of 
a God. 

“I loathe ‘buses’ and the tubes are detestable. Both 
are filthy and hideous. Then look at our lodgings. We 
have two tiny rooms in a tiny house in a tiny street. Look 
at Mrs. Fletcher! Look at Sarah!” And this is a fair 
specimen of another kind of outburst Jessica would oc¬ 
casionally vent. 

And it must be confessed that if Mrs. Fletcher was 
not all she might be, Sarah was most certainly all she 
should not be. She was, alas, a sad slut and gave the im¬ 
pression of one born in that condition, who had never 
found sufficient time to get out of it. She never smiled, 
but sometimes giggled, when the milkman or baker called 
and the landlady was out of the way. Occasionally—as 
infrequently as Mrs. Fletcher could arrange it—Sarah 


WHIRLWIND 


103 


had an evening off. And, Heavens! How she “offed.” 
Desmond thought her infinitely more pathetic in her cheap 
finery than when he met her racing up the stairs in heel¬ 
less slippers, filthy apron, and a pail of dirty water in each 
hand. 

So it cannot be said that Jessica lived in an atmosphere 
conductive to optimism. 

Then she knew quite well Desmond’s power did not lie 
in the work he had chosen. She herself was far too good 
a musician not to recognise a brother artist in any of 
art s ways. His plodding industry, his painstaking ex¬ 
actitude—the mere fact that he was so steadily consistent 
damned him. His output always came up to the same 
competent, undistinguished standard. 

“I admit there is no reason why he shouldn’t write 
what he does; but there is equally no reason why he 
should! It is just like everybody else’s work.” 

And she would put down Desmond’s last story with a 
sigh of relief. She was sorry for him, very genuinely 
sorry. She could realise, through her music, what a dis¬ 
appointment there was ahead for him. 

“Poor boy! It’s really rather pathetic.” For a few 
minutes she would feel quite a keen heartache, and she 
would pick up his work again with intent to read it 
through. But then the critical faculty of the artist would 
get the better of her kindliness, and down the work went, 
henceforth to remain so. 

“However much the critics back him, and they don’t 
I am quite sure his epitaph at the end of his life will be 
‘Here lies Desmond Antrobus who also ran.’ ” 

Which remark shows she had some glimmer of hu¬ 
mour. 

Jessica knew the harm critics could do, She al30 


104 


WHIRLWIND 


realised that when it came to a question of genius, crit¬ 
icism counted for little in the end. Genius has a way of 
standing up and shouting, till it gets a crowd around that 
listens, and who cares for critics then ? 

And then considerable blame attached to Desmond. 
He obstinately stuck to a job for which he had no talent, 
while the talent he really possessed he allowed to rust. 
On the other hand he was young, and believed in him¬ 
self. Perhaps he had scarcely had time to discover his 
mistake. And this was the first, and perhaps the greatest 
mistake of all, and Jessica had much reason on her side 
when she argued whether “The wife with a meagre in¬ 
come and a husband contentedly plodding a road he 
should never have entered, had a really happier time than 
she, who had all the world could give, but a husband who 
kept half a dozen mistresses?” 

Oh, Jessica, Jessica, what are you thinking as you sit 
in your stuffy little room, what time the shrieks of the 
landlady in the full glow of some quarrel with poor Sarah 
ascend to your chamber ? Is it not better to be respectable 
and uncomfortable than lapped in ease but also ungodly? 

And you look so sweet and good sitting there in your 
usual place by the fire. The firelight just touches your 
face and there is no other light in the room. 

“Is that sort of husband worse than mine in his way? 
Both live selfishly. The only difference I can see is that 
the man I picture lives selfishly but successfully, while 
Desmond lives selfishly but unsuccessfully.” 

Oh, Jessica, what are we to do with you? But she 
heeds us not and lets the thoughts flow on. 

“As for love, neither of them knows what love is. 
Dull acquiescence on the wife’s part, selfish indulgence on 
the man’s are not my ideas of love. No, the woman is 


WHIRLWIND 


105 


merely resigned, like I am, and love is never resigned. 
Neither is it always happy. How can it be when it’s for¬ 
ever seeking impossible heights? Were Paolo and Fran¬ 
cesco happy? Romeo and Juliet resigned? Tristram and 
Yseult ?” 

By which we see Jessica has not only discovered dis¬ 
appointment in her marriage, but also that something 
more is wanted than “liking” before one can be happy. 
And this she thought was especially true if you lived in a 
horrid little house in Battersea. 

This is not the place for discourse upon love, but surely 
the happiest love is that which contains some elements 
of worship? 

Mary sat at the feet of her master because her love was 
mixed with adoration. While she loved she also wor¬ 
shipped, and probably her worship was greater than her 
love. In her gentle way she felt that to learn was her 
mission when the Master called. 

She knew and believed. I sometimes wonder if 
Martha quite believed, but I am certain she did not 
know. 

Did He who could divide five loaves and two small 
fishes so as to appease the hunger of five thousand, have 
any need that Martha should fuss about her larder ? She 
prided herself on her housekeeping and, no doubt, with 
justice, only—as so often happens—the Guest came at 
an inopportune moment. She was busy with the washing 
of some fine damask clothes and had not looked for visi¬ 
tors. 

So she bustled about, nettled that Mary did not offer 
even to lay the cloth, surprised that He, usually so con¬ 
siderate, did not chide the younger sister for leaving all 
to the elder, but most of all was she upset because she 


io6 


WHIRLWIND 


had been taken unawares and her reputation for house¬ 
keeping was threatened with eclipse. 

Forgive this quaint digression! Otherwise we had best 
part company at once, for I’m sure to do it again! It is 
almost inevitable, you know, in any history that attempts 
to state more than a few bald facts. 

Had Margaret and Desmond met in their early youth 
it is quite likely they would have fallen in love; he might 
have gone on writing for magazines so long as he was 
able, and she would most certainly have continued wor¬ 
shipping all her days. 

She was not a luxury lover. The thoroughbred aristo¬ 
crat seldom is. And she would have been quite content 
to wait. I think she would have contrived better than 
Jessica; she would have found rooms somewhere in not 
too terrible a neighbourhood and have put something of 
her own fastidious nature into them. 

Above all, she would never have been made to see that 
he only “also ran.” Indeed, she would almost have per¬ 
suaded him that he came in second, and very nearly first. 

Of course, Desmond’s powers put continually to a 
wrong use, would finally have folded their wings, and 
have crept stealthily away weeping that so fine an instru¬ 
ment was lost to them. And then he would have looked 
at Margaret wondering if, in her secret soul, she did not 
recognise his futility. 

But how could she have a secret soul from the man she 
loved ? So he would have had to play up to her and go on 
with his mistake; patch and contrive and pretend he 
would surely win next time (while inwardly he had long 
ago acknowledged that the prizes of the race would never 
be his). 

But Desmond did not meet Margaret when they were 


WHIRLWIND 


107 


both young and pliable. He met Jessica, and married her; 
and so instead of a placid, uneventful life, came one of 
stress and turmoil; and from economy stretched to a 
point, he reached to wealth, position and great importance. 

And Margaret? 

Had she not been forced to wait and sit at the feet of 
her Master, would she have grown to the fine delicate lady 
we know? 

A delicate lady with a large understanding and thought 
for others. A very simple but great lady, as I have met 
her in a London drawing-room with the scent of her car¬ 
nations and roses of Fordcombe hanging about her; or, 
a very great but simple lady, pacing the high south ter¬ 
race, or walking down the long pleached alley by the 
moat, where the pigeons strut in comic consequence and 
the kitchen cat, all tortoiseshell, with an ugly smut on his 
nose, has the audacity to intrude. 

And here in her gardens, or in a wainscotted room, 
thick with the cultivated atmosphere of centuries, some¬ 
thing she brings of the grace and dignity of a very regal 
court. But When I meet her in town at Lady Flintshire's 
or my lady Suffolk’s, I ever see her just as the lady of 
Fordcombe, a very simple personage, but knowing well 
the ways and manners of a court. 


XI 


But delightful though Fordcombe may be, and 
charming as Margaret undoubtedly is, we cannot linger 
in her pleasant company but must visit the somewhat 
third rate lodging in Battersea and see how the good 
folks there are getting on. 

Alas! For what do we see? Jessica may appear re¬ 
signed, but is really in that state once known as that of 
passive resistance. She still performs her various little 
duties, at least those which affect her own comfort, but 
she has long ago ceased to mend Desmond’s socks. She 
orders the dinner, because she has to eat it, and she en¬ 
deavours to keep the room in some semblance of a state 
of grace, because she has to sit in it, and for all of this 
Desmond thinks her an object lesson to all young wives. 

But Jessica knew she was an alien who had no business 
in Battersea at all, and she even began to think that Des¬ 
mond, though doubtless all he should be, was, well, not 
quite of her world! 

And that was a nice thing to think about her husband, 
was it not? 

But our real relations are they we are most in tune 
with, not necessarily they we are akin to in the flesh; 
and our native home is where our thoughts would have 
us be, not always where the body finds itself. 

And, therefore, some of us are widely separated from 
our own kind and pining exiles in a strange land. 

And with many this is so irresistible, that, be they where 
108 


WHIRLWIND 


109 


they may, they will, nay, they cannot help but must, 
move Heaven and Earth till they return again to the 
land they know. 

Jessica was such a one. She was fixed in her deter¬ 
mination to reach once more the land of her birth, the 
kingdom she owned, and the people over whom she would 
rule as queen. 

In the first moment of her meeting with Desmond she 
thought that in him was found one from her own coun¬ 
try, whose language she spoke and whose customs she 
understood; familiar with the life she knew but from 
which she had somehow got separated. But in those days 
Desmond was an idealist and not even his love could 
swerve him from the course he had set himself to run. 

It certainly was trying, and she knew, Heaven knows 
how, that it was far better to be the wife of a rich stock¬ 
broker than the wife of a poverty-stricken peer with only 
his name to keep up his position, which, in itself, pre¬ 
vented him from keeping it up. 

They had many a tussle before Jessica gave in, or one 
should say before she ceased fighting. “Give in” she 
never did, she was as fully settled in her convictions as 
her husband in his, the difference was that while he was 
content to plod and wait, she had every intention of 
gaining real affluence and without any undue delay. 

Again Desmond was greatly in fault. He should have 
seen the error of his ways and the hardships to which 
he asked Jessica to submit. But the hardships were a 
joke to him, he rather enjoyed them. To him they were 
something of a new farce. To Jessica a very old and 
sordid tragedy. “I never knew you cared so much for 
money,” he would say a little sadly, when something 
dimly dawned on him as to the real situation. 


no 


WHIRLWIND 


It would be at night they usually had their talks. 

Desmond, tired, maybe, and feeling a little baffled, a 
little despondent, a little dissatisfied with his work. He 
had done his best, poor fellow, but knew it would have 
to be done all over again to-morrow. And the weather 
had been that curious compound of cold and mugginess, 
when the body is too hot and yet the hands and feet too 
cold. At such times Desmond would feel a cold bath 
might revive him, but a cold bath at nine o’clock in the 
evening doesn’t sound attractive. So there he’d sit, feel¬ 
ing his head might at any moment split in many pieces. 

And what about the girl opposite? What sort of day 
had she passed? 

Well, in the morning she had interviewed Mrs. 
Fletcher, who had appeared before the remnants of the 
breakfast had been taken away, bearing a charger on 
which reposed fragments of the “cold mutting” that 
stuck to the said charger by the glue of its own gravy. 
It was a repulsive sight and a bad beginning for Jessica’s 
day. She gazed from the uncleared breakfast table, with 
its remnants of eggs and bacon, to the “mutting.” What 
on earth was to be done with it? 

“ ’Ow habout an ’ash?” 

Jessica remembered Mrs. Fletcher’s hashes and shud¬ 
dered. In those concoctions the meat had a curious habit 
of disappearing into a few hard little gristly curls that 
sank desponding in an ocean of pale water whereon strips 
of hard turnips swam superbly as though they were 
swans. 

“I think, perhaps, we’ll have it cold,” said Jessica, “and 
a salad. That, at least,” she added to herself, “will be 
eatable.” 

Mrs. Fletcher looked a volume. Folks that could eat 


WHIRLWIND 


hi 


cold mutton in preference to an ’ash could not be real 
gentry. For the honour of her house, therefore, she tried 
again. 

“Rissoles, now! ’Ow about a few tasty rissoles?” 

Jessica remembered them also and clung more desper¬ 
ately to cold meat. 

“Cold if you please, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said firmly. 
“Mr. Antrobus is going out and I don’t know when he 
will be back.” 

Foiled on the mid-day meal, Mrs. Fletcher fell back 
on her last line of defence. 

’Ow about supper then?” 

But Jessica could bear no more and resigned herself 
to anything the landlady chose to do. 

The morning had passed somehow, and after the “cold 
mutting” which had stuck in her throat and refused to 
be eaten, she had gone by ’bus and tube to a more central 
part of town, in pursuit of distraction. The weather had 
not improved, but she could bear the stuffiness of their 
little room no longer. 

A dead sky overhead and mud underfoot, slushy and 
oily streets, and the air heavy as lead with a damp cold 
in it. Wealth on every side of her, and carefully ignoring 
her. Comfort, luxury, rolling in motor cars, turning 
up noses at the poor weary exile trudging with cold feet 
and holding up a bespattered skirt. Anon she passed 
between rows of brilliantly lighted shops full of beautiful 
things, from which lovely visions issued daintily to car 
and taxi, having, she felt certain, spent a fortune without 
thought. 

Oh, far better to have stayed at home! Then what 
compensation had she to look forward to in the evening? 
There would be the mystery of Mrs. Fletcher’s supper. 


112 


WHIRLWIND 


afterwards she and Desmond would sit alone, or some¬ 
one might drop in for a chat. Neither prospect held any 
allurement. 

Either the visitor would be a denizen of the bright 
world she longed to live in, some male relation or old 
friend of Desmond’s, wlho called out of pity, or one of 
those terrible Bohemians who accepted them at their face 
value. 

Jessica had begun to dread both types. The former 
because he showed up in the ghastly light of reality the 
poverty of their surroundings; the latter, because he en¬ 
raged her, inasmuch as she was so obviously included 
as one of that out at elbows band. 

Thus, almost any evening that winter, you might have 
beheld them sitting in their small room over a fire of 
cheap coal. And how Jessica hated that coal! It never 
burned properly, but usually gave forth a thick pungent 
column of fog-coloured smoke that flew rapidly up the 
chimney. She would often look across at her husband 
and wonder how so well bred a boy, used to far different 
surroundings, could be so carried away by ambition as tc 
put up with such an existence. 

Ah! But she reckoned without the sense of novelty it 
was to Desmond. All this experience was amusing to 
him, though for her it held something of the horror of 
a ghost that walks again when it had been thought to be 
well laid, and when she found herself, as she frequently 
did those days, facing the fearful thought of “this for 
ever,” she had hard work not to cry out with rage and 
ennui! Her nerves were rasped, her taste outraged, and 
she would sit defiant, unyielding, but very strangely still 
and silent. 

Now if you care for your garden you only plant the 


WHIRLWIND 


113 

flowers you think should do well there. This one in some 
sheltered corner, and that elsewhere, so it can meet with 
all the winds of heaven and thrive upon them. Further, 
you will not plant in unsuitable soil but will change the 
soil to suit the plant; and, even when all that is done, you 
will water your plant, and, maybe, fasten it up tenderly, 
so it may grow strong and straight and be a credit to you. 

But what if all this had been done for Jessica? Who 
had been playing experiments with such a rare exotic? 
She should have been raised in some hothouse with other 
delicate wonderful things. She had never had a chance 
that I can see. To start with, she had been an utter alien 
in the place where she had been born. She had lacked 
all she needed of sun, of care, of culture, yet she had 
a great need for all these buried deep within her nature. 
Again we must ask, “Who dared play such a mad experi¬ 
ment and not look for failure?” 

So let us remember this at those times when her boy- 
husband tried to explain his views to her and she 
answered with something more than impatience. I have 
owned he was not blameless, but after all he was an en¬ 
thusiast, and only a youth, very different to the Antro- 
bus we first met in Aylmer’s garden. And he might have 
explained his ideals to Jessica till Doomsday, she would 
never have understood. 

Yet he was very tender to her, very caressing, and 
would argue quietly, with a rather shy, elusive smile. 
But this was only another spur to irritate those nerves 
dancing like horses that long for a good stretching gal¬ 
lop, and only plunge the more at the rider’s half timid 
pats and words. She would answer his gentle argu¬ 
ments in words somewhat like these: 

“Don’t for goodness sake talk as though I were a child. 


WHIRLWIND 


114 

I know you are clever. It’s that that makes me what you 
call so difficult. If you chose you would soon make a 
good position. All your people laugh at you! This way 
we shall do nothing but just go on existing.” 

“I thought you believed in me. You used to say you 
did.” 

“I do believe in you, if you’d go the right way to 
work.” 

“You weren’t used to luxury at home.” 

“Luxury’s one thing; decent comfort another. And 
we know hardly a soul! We can’t afford to! Look at 
me, Desmond, look well! Am I the sort of girl to keep 
buried alive?” 

She had risen swiftly and stood erect before him. For 
the moment he was almost shocked at the revelation of 
so much loveliness, wherein there seemed ever something 
new, some fresh revelation to be found. 

How straight and tall she looked in that tiny room; 
how lithe and supple. Her white throat (and the flower 
of the medlar was not whiter) rose like a slender marble 
shaft to support the dainty head. And the head itself ? 

Where was another so tantalising tilt of the chin? Or 
lips where the reddest of roses had bled? The delicate, 
sensitive nose; and the long lashed violet eyes that could 
shine like stars in a southern sea! The curious poise 
and turn of the head; all personal to herself, provocative 
and quite unstudied. 

And not a bit of these was there Desmond did not love, 
from the swelling breasts to each curve and intimate line 
of her body, from the soles of her feet to the white arms 
and hands (a little outstretched to him, tapering, fragile, 
without a blemish), he worshipped her altogether. 
“Aren’t you a little proud of me?” she asked. 


WHIRLWIND 


US 

And it will be ever a mystery how Desmond resisted 
the appeal. But resist he did, and not even for her would 
he yield up what he took to be his birthright. Well, but 
you must remember she was his wife now. He possessed 
her, and that made so much difference. No woman has 
the same value to her husband as to her lover. 

So now when she had appealed to his physical side, 
putting all her beauty before him, endeavouring to en¬ 
mesh him and subjugate him with her body, she failed, 
because they were man and wife, and there was little 
mystery left about her. 

“Give me a little longer,” Desmond pleaded sadly. 

“You always end with that. We’ve been married 
over two years now! Two years! It seems an 
eternity.” 

“As bad as all that?” 

Then he would make love to her, and very charmingfy 
and convincingly. He was a delightful lover in those days, 
not spoilt by too much practice. He had been rather a 
steady boy, as boys go. Had he had more experience in 
women he might have managed better. 

“Can’t you be patient a little longer, Jessica?” 

Now, unfortunately for Desmond, patience and Jessica 
had parted company at the church door on her wedding 
day. She had thought to escape through that door, but 
appeared only to have re-entered the old cage by another 
way. To her husband she was only a girl who had been 
used to nothing better than he could give her. He never 
realised that gems demand a suitable setting, and that 
rubies and diamonds are not usually set in copper. 

So they drifted on, day after day, week after week, 
each month finding them a little further apart, she con¬ 
scious of the separation, he, a little selfish in his occupa- 


n6 


WHIRLWIND 


tion, unmindful of the quiet change and silent broodings 
of his wife. At times she felt it quite impossible to keep 
still. She would make a hundred excuses to go upstairs, 
and on reaching their bedroom would sit down on the bed 
in complete idleness till she could decently return and 
pretend she had been busy. 

“Must you walk about?” Desmond would ask plain¬ 
tively, when struggling with some awkward bit of work 
that refused to be accommodating. “I must get this 
article done to-night.” 

“I’m sorry!” 

And having answered she would drop into the nearest 
chair. 

“What do you expect to get for it?” she would ask, 
after a minute’s silence. 

“Five guineas with luck.” 

Five guineas! What was the good of five guineas? 
Even with luck? Then, after keeping as motionless as 
possible till her internal restlessness could be borne no 
longer, she would rise and make for the door. 

“Do you want anything?” Desmond would enquire, 
feeling contrite. 

“Nothing thank you,” she would reply, and go out of 
the room. “How does he do it, how can he be so damn¬ 
ably philosophical?” she asked herself as she went quickly 
up the steep little stairs. “Where does he get this power 
to wait? To make me wait? If only he’d do what he 
can and not what he merely wants to do.” 

Then she would sit on the edge of their bed, almost 
suffocating, the breath caught in her throat, the fingers 
dug into the palms of her hands that beat a tattoo on the 
counterpane. 

“I’m like an animal caught, trapped, caged,” she cried 


WHIRLWIND 


ii 7 

in her bitterness. “Just sufficient room to walk up and 
down. Caged in the midst of its own beautiful woods. 
Trees, river, long sweet grass, cool shade, glorious sun 
and freedom just out of reach. I’m like that—all I want, 
all I’m eager for, throbbing at the mere thought of, is 
just outside, and I’m beating my bars, trapped, fairly 
trapped.” 

A few hundred years ago she would have gracefully 
poisoned Desmond in some flowing bowl. And she would 
have done it because, obviously it was the best, indeed, the 
only thing to do. But we are a little more civilised now, 
or at least are supposed to be; but Jessica was very prim¬ 
itive, a primitive some mordaunt God had set down in 
the midst of conventional respectability. 

When she felt calmer she would return to the sitting 
room and sit quietly by the fire, outwardly at any rate, 
studiously composed. She never made a scene, but she 
was full of drama. Desmond looking at her then thought 
he had been quite mistaken in supposing she had been a 
little upset; so it went on, and she would count the days 
till they were weeks, and the weeks till they became 
months. 

Let us take a last look at this picture before us; Jessica 
sits by the yellow smoke that was called by courtesy, a 
fire. Do you notice a curious smile about her lips? 

“She was always famous for her smile, wasn’t she?” 

“But what is the meaning of it?” I ask. 

“It might mean anything.” 

“I’d give something to know the thoughts that work 
behind it.” 

* * * * * 

The little house grew very quiet as the night crept on. 
The little back street ceased to be full of racket; only 


118 


WHIRLWIND 


there came the sound of drizzling rain upon the window. 

Will Jessica’s to-morrow be the same as to-day? Black, 
hopeless, headachy? Dragging its hours as a tattered 
slattern drags her brood of ragged children? 

Will she go up to Bond Street again to look at gaily 
lighted shops? And will she have to wait till she can 
cross the street in mud and drizzle while a string of smart 
motors splashes by? 

Were those her thoughts behind that curious smile? as 
she sat by that yellow smoke that was called by courtesy 
a fire, sat on and on, very quiet, dangerously quiet, very 
dangerously quiet, if Desmond had only known. 


XII 


But occasionally Desmond and his wife would have 
an evening off and go out, just like Sarah. 

On these occasions, Mrs. Fletcher would confide to her 
friends and neighbours (people she was careful to inform 
her lodgers she “ ’ad to know yer know though she’d 
always ’eld ’er ’ead ’igh in Battersea”) over a glass of 
“somefin’ ’ot” that, though it was all very well “for young 
people to enjoy each other, still the way that Mrs. Han- 
trobus undressed of ’erself, was enough to make her black 
cat blush.” 

It was on one of these evenings off that our young 
people went to a house of a painter friend who had lent 
his studio for a “Reunion of the British Tea Table 
Poetical Society.” 

And to her dying day Jessica was haunted with the 
vision of that party and shuddered afresh every time the 
visitation took place. 

The host was a good-natured fellow enough, a bad 
painter, but a charming man, one of those bachelors who 
contrive to mix with the rag-tag of Bohemia, yet keep 
their end up socially. 

And it was entirely to please Bellamy and for the sake 
of “the rag” that Desmond had urged his wife to go to 
the “soiree.” But Jessica’s sense of humour was in abey¬ 
ance that night, and the whole affair proved merely the 
culminating crisis to a long series of lesser ones. 

The cheap dresses of the women (fearful and fantastic 
119 


120 


WHIRLWIND 


arrangements of what looked like curtains and antima¬ 
cassars switched hastily from their proper places and 
hurtled around the wearers) merely made her angry 
while the wearers themselves in their frantic efforts after 
“an artistic effect (which only resulted in a highly suc¬ 
cessful study of the untidy), raised a horrible loathing 
for the whole lot, host, party and guests alike; and I 
fear her own husband was not entirely excluded. 

Heavens! Had she come to this? Was this the sort 
of thing she had to look forward to? Was she to regard 
herself as lucky in being one of such a third-rate, vulgar 
and utterly commonplace set ? 

(And only the night before, according to the Morning 
Post, the Hon. Mrs. Tom had worn a frock of, well, 
never mind what, except that antimacassars had no place 
thereon.) 

“And why have some people put on fancy dress?” she 
wondered to herself. “They haven’t even the excuse of 
looking beautiful. That Don Juan in black cotton vel¬ 
veteen. He looks much more likely to run away from a 
woman than to run after her.” 

In truth, it was a curious conglomeration. Jessica’s 
eye fell on a stout dame arrayed as a Dresden Shepherd¬ 
ess, and concluded the disguise must have been donned 
because the lady had nothing else to wear. 

“I suppose she would tell me there were middle-aged 
shepherdesses, even in the days of Watteau. There may 
have been, but he forgot to paint them.” 

There were also present two or three soulful youths, and 
several impudent looking boys. These last were dressed 
in cheap Charles Surface suits and lace ruffles, cheaper 
still; but while their clothes were inexpensive their com¬ 
plexions represented considerable outlay. 


WHIRLWIND 


121 


An unattractive man came up and spoke to Jessica and 
thought his dare-devil manner beyond measure irresist¬ 
ible. Jessica thought him more common than usual, 
snubbed him and moved on. 

The one thing that roused her to a faint sense of 
amusement was the way the women had undone their 
hair. 

Some heads looked as though the hair, originally piled 
high on the top, had slipped down, not so much out of 
malice as out of pique. Jessica was astonished at the 
amount of tired hair she saw about her. There were 
arrangements that had quite obviously started out on 
their career with the loftiest of ambitions, but the stress 
of life proving too much the attempt had been given up 
when but half acomplished, while other hair had certainly 
fulfilled the poet’s vision and climbed from their dead 
selves to wigs and fronts and other things. 

Some fell in flowing curls, some were bobbed, but one 
and all, red, black, brown or peroxide, gave the impres¬ 
sion (and a totally wrong impression it was) that the 
owners had but lately leapt from their beds and forgot¬ 
ten all about hair doing whatever. 

But the frocks had one redeeming virtue. One and 
all were obviously ashamed of their owners and wept 
away from them like strange seaweed. Some gowns 
sported bits of lace, which looked very surprised (as well 
they might be) at finding themselves where they did; or 
artificial flowers and beads wrangled for the mastery. 
These last looked as though they had been thrown at the 
frock, and, most obligingly, had stayed thrown. Or else 
clung desperately to hair and brow. Great was the hilar¬ 
ity of the guests; out were they to enjoy themselves. 
Badinage flew; masculine hands were playfully smacked 



122 


WHIRLWIND 


by the reproving paws of females into whose ears some¬ 
thing “naughty” had been murmured. 

But the real fun began after the refreshments. The 
ham sandwiches, blanc-manges, hot coffee and sweet 
lemonade worked sad havoc in that brainy throng. There 
was a stout gentleman of immense tonnage (reported to 
be an excellent dressmaker in the daytime) who someone 
prevailed upon to go to the piano and play something of 
Chaminade.” This he instantly did and with a light, nay, 
a “feathery” touch. 

No sooner had he finished than a sombre but vivid 
youth promptly wedged himself under the stout gentle¬ 
man and commenced the prelude to a passionate song 
“about the love he met at the Gate of Death, and to whom 
he gave a rose,” which in the last verse turned out to be 
his own soul and not a rose at all. But the stout gentle¬ 
man had had no intention of resigning the piano. He 
had merely risen to bow his acknowledgment and be 
pressed for further efforts. Forced now to remove a 
space or two, he would have recaptured his coign of 
vantage the instant the youth had discovered the rose 
was his soul, had not someone else slipped in and pre¬ 
pared elaborately to accompany a tall, and rather scraggy, 
damsel, dressed in one of the curtains from her window, 
or, possibly, the counterpane off her bed, trimmed with an 
arrangement of moulting feathers. After this, our stout 
friend retired to the refreshments and sipped lemon¬ 
ade, which as time went on, if it grew weaker as regards 
lemons, grew stronger and stronger in water and sugar. 

A lofty yell cut the air! The damsel had begun to 
sing! Sing! I .beg your pardon! We did not merely sing 
at, well, whatever the festivals were called. Oh, no! We 
“rendered,” We had soul. We had temperament! We 


WHIRLWIND 


123 


had brains! and worked them hard. Hold tight! Don’t 
breathe! Once more she dashed into the breech. At 
least her mouth was wide open, but surely something 
dreadful had happened? The pianist went on, but the 
lady seemed to have lost her voice, and nothing came 
forth from the mouth that opened and shut in a face 
distorted with agony. 

“Who is she?” asked Jessica, of one of the soulful 
youths near her. 

A Miss Rosalie Foljambe. Don’t you know her? 
She is an established artist.” 

“She hasn’t much middle register,” Jessica observed, 
as the lady boomed suddenly somewhere in the bass, only 
to return quickly to higher altitudes. 

But Jessica’s companion concluded from her banal re¬ 
mark about register (as though voices were kitchen 
stoves), that she was nothing but “an exquisitely beauti¬ 
ful doll.” So he left her to listen to the art of Miss 
Foljambe, who continued to soar on high or grovel in the 
depths, avoiding the notes that so uncomfortably lay in 
between, with the confidence of “an established artist.” 

Perhaps the really great moments of the night were 
those wherein some member recited his own poetry. 
(Now and again he recited someone else’s, but always 
with an air of having begun by accident and in mistake 
for one of his own.) Now, if these works lacked aught 
in poetry, they atoned for that omission by any amount 
of eroticism. The most countrified mouse required no 
interpreter, while each member of the British Tea Table 
Poetical Society felt one with the great historic lovers 
of the past. 

There was only one woman with whom Jessica Antro- 
bus had the slightest feeling in common. This was a Mrs. 


124 


WHIRLWIND 


Welsh, a patroness of Bellamy’s who had sat to him for 
her portrait and had conceived it the right thing to fall 
a little in love with him. Mrs. Welsh was fascinated 
by the extraordinary beauty of her neighbour. A quick 
eye took in the simplicity and inexpensiveness of the 
frock; but then how refreshingly free from eccentricity 
it was. The good lady felt herself safe in confiding to 
Jessica that “she thought Bohemianism might be carried 
too far.” 

Now when, in the years that came, Jessica looked back 
on this party, she thought that then it was she had realised 
the limit of her endurance. It was the last straw that broke 
the back of her patience. 

Perhaps a party is not a very important event in itself, 
but this affair at Bellamy’s studio had come at the psycho¬ 
logical moment for Jessica. She had looked forward to 
so very different an existence; to comfort, well appointed 
houses, pleasant week-ends, motors, dances, occasional 
dinners at amusing restaurants. 

She was very young and youth is terribly impatient. 
It can never believe that life at the ponderous age of 
forty is just as enjoyable as ever it was at the more 
sprightly twenty. It wants its fun all along the line; and 
when youth is coupled with such undoubted beauty as 
Jessica’s there is some justification in the demand. 

But how had she gathered these ideas ? Where had she 
learnt the ways of a life to which she was not born? 

She had spent all her days in one of those dreary, strag¬ 
gling, overgrown villages, that try to wriggle themselves 
into a town. And one’s only thought in passing through 
Towchester was a devout hope that, the houses being all 
obviously jerry-built, they would soon fall down, and, 
under no circumstances whatever, would be put up again. 


WHIRLWIND 


125 


On the outskirts of this dreadful place stood Jessica’s 
home, the only serious rival to the church in hideosity. 

The rectory boasted an alleged garden, the blissful 
abode of slugs and snails. It was sooty and untidy, and 
offered no possibilities of improvement. There was a 
“sweep” before the front door, and some hopeless and 
forlorn laurels. In front of the principal windows on 
the other side four flower beds on a strip of lawn; the 
rest of the domain consisted of kitchen garden with 
asphalt paths divided from “the garden” by more leggy 
laurels, and the whole was bounded by a wall covered 
with a rank ivy consecrated to spiders and their webs. 

The interior of the house matched exactly with the 
outside. Badly proportioned rooms opened from ill- 
paved passages from one of which a steep pitch-pine 
staircase led to the upper rooms. Jessica remembered 
the thin carpets, and chairs that gave no ease, paper and 
paint that strove for priority in a claim for instant 
reparation. But against any such drastic proceeding the 
faint and faded furniture cried aloud, pointing out in 
agony that were paint and paper renewed, tables and 
chairs, to say nothing of carpets and curtains, would be 
put disastrously out of countenance. 

And this was the only home that Jessica had ever 
known. Her father (and her mother before her mar¬ 
riage) had always been used to just such homes. Both 
seemed content. Her relatives were all poor, had always 
been poor, and looked for nothing else but poverty. They 
considered a poor clergyman’s position to be vastly 
superior to that of a rich tradesman. They were as much 
shut away from reality as any nun or monk in convent 
or monastery. Jessica had watched them carefully 
tabulated their shortcomings and shuddered as she did so. 



126 


WHIRLWIND 


Yes, among such folk, in these same surroundings, had 
she been raised. Then whence, oh whence, came that 
innate longing, that true knowledge of a life made up of 
luxury, as distant from that she had led as an Emperor’s 
palace is different from an Irishman’s mud hut? 

Jessica was too young to notice how the dull stagnation 
had sapped her father’s energy, and how the conviction 
that life held nothing in the future for him had taken 
away any sense of humour, of beauty, or desire for better 
things. Most of their neighbours were in the same cate¬ 
gory, and when she remembered that Jessica shuddered 
again! 

Suppose she too became in time like unto these? She 
would have been a hopeless idiot not to have recognised 
the beauty she saw in her glass, or to have denied the 
curious fact that not the surliest ruffian in the village or 
the most incorrigible “drunk” but grew somewhat awk¬ 
ward and shy if she so much as only smiled on him; but 
suppose in time she became ... No! It makes me shud¬ 
der too. 

She had only one real pleasure in life. The girl had a 
passion for music. She loved everything that was beau¬ 
tiful, but music was an obsession with her. 

Even in that she was different from all her relations 
and friends. She could not abide the oratorio. Con¬ 
sequently she was not considered “really musical, you 
know,” by the various cousins and aunts who warbled 
“Gems from the oratorios” which they sang from a paper 
book with a jaundiced cover. 

Occasionally they were really very modern and played 
fantasias on “Faust” or “Carmen.” But though they 
would perpetrate these dreadful “arrangements” in their 
more rakish moments, it was always with an apology and 


WHIRLWIND 


127 


with a sense that, while it was all very well to play a 
selection from these works, neither “Faust” nor “Car¬ 
men ’ was the sort of thing they would care to go and see 
themselves. 

How Jessica marvelled at the brain that took Jane or 
Susan to a ballad concert when they might have heard 
Kreisler at the Queen’s Hall. How she would further 
marvel when Susan (or Jane) returned with some ter¬ 
rible ballad she had heard and thought, most unfortun¬ 
ately, she could sing. 

Poor girl, she had but one friend who sympathised. 
A man who had started life with great ambitions and 
was now content, nay, glad, to be organist at Towchester. 
He coud talk of the great artists he had heard in 
former days and introduced her to Beethoven and Bach; 
and now and again, when funds were not very low, she 
would buy modern stuff, Debussy, Ravel, and yet others. 
And then how she longed for some better lessons than 
those poor old Hitchcock could give her! 

For Jessica played extraordinarily well. Hitchcock 
was a musician and though he bullied her, sparing her 
nothing, he very often admitted she played nearly as well 
as some of the great ones up in town. 

As to her own people, they considered the violin waste 
of time. 

“Why don’t you learn the harmonium, dear Jessica? 
Then you could play in your father’s church,” murmured 
Aunt Anne. 

“Yes, dear! No one plays the violin except profes¬ 
sionals,” added Cousin Emily, and felt she had said that 
which damned the instrument for ever. 

“I wish I could play like one of them,” cried Jessica, 
drawing shrieks and groans in her rage from her fiddle. 


128 


WHIRLWIND 


“My dear!” beamed Aunt Anne effusively, as though 
talking to a child. “You don’t quite mean that. No 
doubt some professionals are most worthy people. Un¬ 
fortunately, we know, the majority lead very sad lives.” 

With which sweeping, uncharitable, un-Christlike re¬ 
mark, the lady felt however worthy the said professionals 
might be, however great their reputations, or welcome 
their presence in the most exclusive society, in no possible 
circumstances whatever could they be placed on a par 
with people like herself, or Mrs. Ronalds of “The Rho¬ 
dodendrons.” • 

“Madame Cantatrice has been staying with the De la 
Meres,” snapped Jessica viciously. Now Lord de la 
Mere was Lord Lieutenant of the County and in the eyes 
of Jessica’s circle could do no wrong. 

“Really,” exclaimed her relatives, “we didn’t know 
that dear Lady de la Mere ‘took up’ those sort of people.” 

“Oh, she has been staying with Prince and Princess 
Charles,” they added, in reply to a further broadside 
from Jessica. This was a shock it took quite a minute 
to get over, when fortunately one lady had a brilliant idea 
with which to comfort the other. 

“Royalty,” she said, “have to know all sorts of people.” 

Still, it was very odd; very odd and most upsetting, 
but they calmed themselves by asking another young 
relative to play “Faust.” This was at once a concession to 
Jessica and a solace to themselves. Then they finished 
up with the latest ballad, “The Roses round the Altar” 
and went to bed, firmly convinced that theirs was a more 
refined taste than “poor Jessica’s.” 

Another thing that was laid to Jessica’s account was 
that she liked music which they did not even pretend to 
understand. 


WHIRLWIND 


129 


Jessica’s sure firm bowing and the sounds she made 
were truly “out of place,” and as they went upstairs to 
bed, Aunt Anne would whisper to Cousin Emily: 

“What an extraordinary girl is Jessica!” 

“Well, yes, but she always was, you know.” 

Therefore was Jessica considered “strange” and 
“peculiar,” but I fear she didn’t care. To Jessica her 
relations were nothing in the world but so many awful 
warnings. 

Living so much in herself, her unhappy fiddle had to 
express all her joys, her longings and her defeats. Like 
all possessors of temperament, music was both her bane 
and her comforter, and her happiest hours (and her most 
wretched) were spent with little Hitchcock. 

He also was a warning. He, like all the rest, led a 
down-at-heel existence. Yet once upon a time he had 
had great ambitions. Nothing had come of them. A sad- 
coloured wife who at one time had thought she could 
sing, but had found she could only produce children, may 
have had something to do with these blighted hopes. 

Jessica thought so and put her down on her list of 
warnings. Heavens! How many little Hitchcocks were 
there? For ever there seemed a new baby. And how 
untidy and dirty they all were! 

There was one thing, however, Jessica contrived to do 
very thoroughly, though it would have astonished her ex¬ 
tremely to hear she had done it. The thing she had done 
was this: odd as Jessica’s relations might think her, they 
one and all stood considerably in awe of her. 

The patron of the living had called her “extraordi¬ 
narily beautiful”; and his word was beyond dispute. Yet 
the aunts and cousins confessed that they thought he had 
for once slightly exaggerated in applying the word “beau- 





130 


WHIRLWIND 


tiful” to Jessica. “Beautiful” was a word they reserved 
for royalty and duchesses. It was a state of perfection 
in which princesses and duchesses were born, and, they 
believed, lived and died. Anyway, it was something quite 
beyond their powers to achieve. The patron had never 
called any of them even good looking, and I am not sure 
that they did not consider that in being “extraordinarily 
beautiful” Jessica had not usurped some of the privileges 
of the aristocracy. They were doubtful whether it was 
“really good style” to be so vivid as their cousin at Tow- 
chester. They all agreed upon one thing, however, agreed 
most unanimously and heartily, and that one thing was 
that “Jessica was proud and gave herself airs.” 

Now to do her justice, Jessica never at any period of 
her life had the slightest intention of doing anything of 
the kind, but when you take no pains to propitiate your 
belongings and merely catalogue them as “awful warn¬ 
ings” some such effect is bound to happen. 

No wonder they failed to comprehend her. She didn’t 
understand them either, for that matter, and in a different 
way was just as much afraid of them. She was always 
haunted with terror lest, as time went on, she might be' 
come like unto them. She would lie awake, terrified, lest 
she grew skimpy and wispy like her Aunt Anne, or 
pinched and apologetic like Cousin Emily, or, worse fate 
of all, beaming and effusive like terrible Aunt Methusaleh. 


XIII 


I THINK we must now really pay a little more atten¬ 
tion to the husband who has been far too much neglected 
hitherto. But really Desmond’s life has not held much 
of interest to chronicle. 

He had joined a Bohemian club and found it amusing, 
if not all he had imagined. He was much disappointed 
to find the art life of London split up into little cliques, 
each of which considered itself the only true light and all 
the others false beacons. 

He also frequently looked in on Aunt Elinor, usually 
on his way home from newspaper or magazine offices. 
She was generally at home, and always kind and cordial. 

“Why don’t you bring Jessica to see me?” she asked 
him one day. 

“I proposed meeting her here, Aunt Elinor, but she is 
lunching out with some friends of hers, and going with 
them to Queen’s Club to see the sports.” 

Miss Antrobus looked a little grave at hearing this. 
She did not approve of husbands and wives having sepa¬ 
rate friends. 

“You must both come and dine here one evening,” she 
said, “and I will ask some pleasant people to meet you. 
Who is Jessica with to-day?” 

“I believe the host is Basil Lethbridge. You know 
him, I think,” 

131 





132 


WHIRLWIND 


Aunt Elinor did know him, as a man with a great deal 
of money and not very much reputation, or rather, he 
had a great deal of money and too much reputation, of 
an unsavoury kind; and Miss Antrobus did not hesitate 
to let Desmond know that she did not consider him the 
sort of person “a beautiful young woman like Jessica” 
should go about with. 

“I think, my dear boy, you should have been of the 
party.” 

“We dine with him on Friday, I believe, at the Savoy. 
They dance there, you know, and Jessica likes dancing.” 

“That is natural at her age,” nodded Aunt Elinor, and 
turned the conversation on to Desmond’s work. 

But she had set him thinking. He too disliked Leth¬ 
bridge. But he could not shut Jessica up like a nun in 
a convent. The most he could do would be to caution 
her. 

But when he did, Jessica laughed. 

“You goose, are you getting jealous? What a com¬ 
pliment! And I thought you were becoming the usual 
husband who forgets all about his wife after the first six 
months.” 

“Well, old girl, be careful in choosing your friends.” 

Jessica pouted. “Much choice I’ve got, haven’t I? 
Lethbridge is a pleasant fellow, and his party was rather 
good fun. Do you expect me to sit at home all day and 
mend your raiment?” She laughed as she held up for 
his inspection a half-mended sock. This was an unusual 
occupation for Jessica those days, and Desmond likened 
her to the picture of “The Young Wife” or “The New 
Penelope,” or any of the paragons of domestic virtue. 

“It’s awfully sweet of you,” he said, as he sat himself 
on the arm of her chair and put his arm round her. 


WHIRLWIND 


133 


Jessica thought he was a very pleasant fellow, a hus¬ 
band one could be proud of, and like sufficiently well. It 
really was quite a pity he was such a fool. 

“Did you enjoy yourself ?” asked Desmond. 

‘Fairly. It did not amuse me to see our elderly cham¬ 
pions trying to appear as young as their foreign rivals. 
They reminded me of girls of forty at a dance.” And 
Jessica was very nice and kind to Desmond all that even¬ 
ing, and he thought “What a dear” she was, and that she 
loved him very, very much. 

Truth to tell, she was feeling a little compunction. 
Lethbridge had gone rather far that day. It had been 
very exciting, she had come home tingling with a new 
sensation. The experience was flattering, and made her 
very pleased with herself. Evidently the door of escape 
was not so firmly barred as she had thought. Give it a 
little push and it might open. But to do her justice, this 
was a door she had never thought of opening. Even 
now she turned away from it, but it was rather thrilling 
to know it was there. 

And Lethbridge was a fine fellow. Altogether Jessica 
had been carried out of herself, and had returned home 
rather more radiant than usual. But she felt just a wee 
bit sorry for her pleasant boy of a husband (and that 
was just the worst thing she could have felt), and with¬ 
out any intention of pose had set herself down to darn 
his socks and try to steady her nerves. And so Desmond 
found her on his return from his talk with Aunt Elinor. 

* * * * * 

Of all her new relations the only one who made any 
appeal to Jessica was Cousin Hugh. He had insisted on 
giving her some excellent and expensive violin lessons, 


134 


WHIRLWIND 


and now she played more finely than ever, and for this 
she was very sincerely grateful. But she had grown 
very fond of the kind old man for other reasons. She 
appreciated his criticisms, and profited by them, and, in¬ 
deed, many a young artist of greater genius than Jessica 
paid heed to those strictures, with considerable profit to 
his art. 

But she liked him also for his quiet sympathy. He 
seemed to understand, as he very well did, and she could 
discuss Desmond with him in a manner impossible with 
anyone else. 

She went to see him the very Friday when she and 
Desmond were to dine and dance at the Savoy. She was 
rather unexpectedly excited at the thought of meeting 
Lethbridge again, and felt she needed the soothing calm 
and gentle acceptance of things as they were that she 
found at Cousin Hugh’s. It is all very well to know a 
door of escape is open to you, but no one wants to be 
pushed through it, and certainly not before the time. 

So she took her violin, and wended her way to the 
house in Hans Place. 

“I do like Hans Place, and the way it plays at being a 
cathedral close,” thought Jessica, as she waited for the 
door to open. It was a delightful day in very early spring, 
and crocuses were up in the garden, tiny buds on the 
trees, while sparrows hopped about, knowing the time of 
worms was at hand. There was also a tradesman’s cart 
a few doors down and this also provided the cathedral 
atmosphere. There is always a tradesman’s cart waiting 
in a cathedral close. 

It was a pleasant house. Jessica approved of the 
square hall, the big blue and white china dragons, the 
general well-to-do country house effect. You went down 


WHIRLWIND 


135 


three steps into the long book-lined library that looked 
into a little garden at the back, but first passed through 
the front hall, and up two steps towards the shallow 
oaken stair. 

“Cousin Hugh does himself remarkably well,” com¬ 
mented Jessica, and not for the first time. 

She went into the library, and was warmly welcomed. 
It was a room of much comfort, thick carpeted and warm¬ 
ly curtained, a very pleasant place indeed. 

Upstairs was a room referred to as “drawing-room” 
and “music room,” indiscriminately. It depended on 
what mood you were in. Very soon they went to this 
room, and Jessica played. But, somehow, she did not get 
the result from the visit she had hoped for. The stim¬ 
ulus of Lethbridge was too big to be put to rest easily. 
Jessica longed to make her fiddle groan and shriek and 
to express herself in some difficult complicated work. 
Suddenly she astonished her host by improvising a 
cadenza utterly out of keeping with the work she had just 
finished. 

‘ My dear child!” exclaimed the old gentleman, his 
hands raised in horrified deprecation. “What in the 
world are you doing?” 

“I’m sorry, I was improvising.” 

“But you mustn’t improvise with Mozart. I remember 
Joachim in ’82 saying-” 

But Jessica knew exactly what Joachim said in ’82. 
She was very, very fond of Mr. Antrdbus, but after all 
she knew all his stories by heart. 

I know, I know,” she cried. “It’s perfectly barbaric 
of me. But I felt so like it. I don’t feel a bit Mozartian 
to-day, but wild and Bacchanalian. What do you think 
of this?” she added, tucking her fiddle under her chin 





WHIRLWIND 


136 

again. “It’s nothing much, and I’ve added some bits 
of my own.” 

And then she broke into something that was certainly 
“nothing much” from the academic point of view and yet 
was a good deal from another. 

It was reckless music with chaotic crescendoes that 
represented nothing but annihilation. There were long, 
weeping notes, wild, restive passages, as of some animal 
caught and caged, with eyes blind with rage shaking the 
bars of his prison. And the hopelessness of it all was 
there, and the lonely aching heart, and the sick longing 
and the frantic measured pacing to and fro of the beast. 
The vision of wild woods, of tangled jungle, cool white 
foaming rivers to be leapt, and caverns secret in the 
mountain side. The glare of the desert, and the heat 
of the nights, the setting of the sun, the sky pale with 
the faded blue of hydrangeas, with delicate greens, while 
closer to earth strange orange, scarlets, curious yellows, 
and against these palms and trees of the oasis crowding 
together, growing ever thicker and assuming a depth of 
green almost unreal in its intensity. 

All, all was there, with the delicate mauve clouds that 
float so easily upon the sky, where the great blue fades to 
white. 

Musically it might have been all wrong. There were 
discords, intervals, arpeggios, changes of key and rhythm 
that took Cousin Hugh’s breath away. Yet he too felt 
the magic of it; and he almost feared as he listened, for 
there was a depth of passion in Jessica he had not sus¬ 
pected, a power he had underrated, and an intensity of 
emotion that made him grievous and fearful for her. 

Suddenly she stopped. The story was done, and the 
spirit that possessed her passed on, leaving her a little 


WHIRLWIND 


137 


white, a little limp, a little as though she had come out of 
a trance. She could not have played another bar had her 
life depended on it. It would have been something banal, 
something for a child that barely knew its notes, that she 
would have played. 

“I didn’t know you had it in you.” 

“I can’t do it always. Now and then I can, and it’s a 
great relief.” 

Then there was a little silence. Jessica was a little 
shaken, and sat quietly on a stool. She did not want to 
talk just then, and Cousin Hugh understood. 

Presently they were told that tea was ready in the 
library, and went down at once to that pleasant room. 

Jessica’s mood changed with the change of atmos¬ 
phere; she could have purred like a cat when she found 
herself in that comfortable chair with beautiful china 
and silver before her, the sort of bread and butter Mrs. 
Fletcher wot not of, and the hot scones sitting happily in 
the fender. 

“It’s good to be you and it’s good to be here,” she said, 
“and I’m glad you liked my music, though, I know, 
taking it to pieces, it was all wrong.” She spoke all in 
one breath, and helped herself to a hot cake as she did so. 
She had worked off the suppressed excitement for a time, 
and was once more a well-balanced young woman. 

But her host did not refer to her music again. It had 
upset and disturbed him, and opened up visions in his 
guest that he would rather not behold. 

“Let us talk of Desmond,” he said. “How is he getting 
on?” 

Jessica pouted, and took a bite of her scone. 

“Same as ever. . . . He’s just finished a novel/’ she 
added. 


138 


WHIRLWIND 


“Have you seen any of it?” 

“I read a chapter or two,” she said dryly. 

Cousin Hugh gathered she had thought little of the 
“chapter or two.” He said nothing, and Jessica said 
nothing. Then after a pause- 

“He sent it to Messrs. X. & X.,” she continued, men¬ 
tioning a publishing firm of the highest repute. 

“I wish we could persuade him to give it up. I should 
be delighted to do all I could for him.” 

“I know, dear Cousin Hugh. You’ve been awfully 
kind. I shall never forget all you’ve done for us. I’ve 
done all I can,” she went on, “I’ve even agreed with every¬ 
thing he says in the hope that man’s natural obstinacy 
would make him change his mind.” 

Then she rose and walked to the window. She sup¬ 
posed she ought to be going, yet she lingered, loath to 
leave that pleasant house. 

“Why are clever men so stupid, Maestro?” she asked, 
giving her cousin a name she had long ago christened 
him by. “Oh, don’t laugh. You know quite well what I 
mean. Desmond has great capabilities. Why will he 
pursue the one career for which he has no talent?” 

“Are you quite sure he is doing that?” 

“Quite; so are you. He has the finicking exactitude of 
the incompetent.” 

Jessica came back to the fire, and spoke very seriously 
and with deep meaning. 

“It’s no use you and I pretending, Cousin Hugh. He 
has no style, no individuality. His work reads like a 
lecture, and when he tries to be funny I could sob. Oh, 
how sincerely I wish he’d never had anything published. 
He might learn the truth then.” 

“It would be very hard for him, dear.” 



WHIRLWIND 


139 


“Will it be any less hard in the end? Isn’t it terrible 
how the gods mock one? Genius they leave to struggle, 
putting every difficulty in his way. They let him err 
again and again while they dazzle mediocrity and lure it 
to its ruin with a pretence of better things to come.” 

“You mean, don’t you,” answered Cousin Hugh, “that 
the gods ignore mediocrity altogether, but train genius 
in the only school in which it can learn.” 

“It’s a wonderful thing. I’d like to be the wife of a 
struggling genius.” 

“My dear girl! You’d be driven mad in a month!” 

“I’m not so sure,” Jessica replied. “I’ve a huge respect 
for genius; I think I should remember it was a sacred 
thing.” She spoke very slowly and very quietly, and 
there was a little awe in her voice that stopped the smile 
about Cousin Hugh’s lips. Maybe she was right. 

“You have a touch of genius yourself, erratic, per¬ 
haps,” he added. 

Jessica only smiled. Among her faults we cannot in¬ 
clude conceit. Flattery never turned her head, another 
proof of her genius, perhaps. 

“I suppose,” said she, thinking of Cousin Hugh’s re¬ 
mark on the hard school genius has to travail in, “I sup¬ 
pose genius is a freak of nature, which nature should be 
left to develop her own way.” 

“Like a pearl in an oyster?” 

Jessica laughed. 

“Perhaps you are right, and brilliant cleverness is the 
better of the two. It wields to its own use opportunities 
the other never sees.” 

“But genius never takes opportunities: it makes them 
_>> 


“And usually for others! Meanwhile, I feel like cry- 



140 


WHIRLWIND 


ing ‘Make my path straight.’ The other day I passed a 
poor woman looking into a jeweller’s shop. She was very 
pretty, but she looked so hungry-” 

“And looking into a jeweller’s shop ?” 

“She was only hungry for the lovely things she saw 
there. I sympathised with that woman. I’m hungry for 
them too.” 

She stretched her arms wide, in eloquent, involuntary 
action, and dropped them at her side. 

“You are a dear,” she continued, and meant it too. 
Her heart warmed to him at that moment; something of 
his commiseration, his understanding she knew. She 
had a friend in him, and, in her way, was really rather 
devoted to him. 

“When I say that kind of thing to Desmond he gets 
shocked. You don’t get shocked, Cousin Hugh! You 
don’t think it awful of me to want all the beautiful things 
the world can give, do you ?” 

Who could resist the child who spoke such hopeless 
sentiments in a voice full of the sound of the cooing of 
doves? The words were so naively spoken. It seemed 
to Jessica a matter of course that all these things should 
be hers. 

“What are these things sent for except to be used?” 
she asked, but never waited for an answer. 

“Oh! I’ve prayed ‘Lead us not into temptation’ time 
out of mind, when I was a good little girl at home. But 
I always found temptation led me. Temptation is a funny 
thing, Cousin Hugh. It has a way of always appearing 
right.” 

Perhaps she did not quite mean all she said. But the 
thought that she would dine and dance with Lethbridge 
that night had returned and disturbed her. 


WHIRLWIND 


141 

“Let us talk of something else, something nice and 
pretty,” she said. 

“One of Desmond’s actor friends looked in last night. 
He’s back from America, and says the sleeping arrange¬ 
ments in the trains are weird. In the upper berth you 
freeze to death, and in the lower you boil like an egg on 
the radiator. I should rather like that. Fancy feeling 
one’s inside turning to a beautiful golden yolk!” 

“I hope you don’t mean all you’ve said, my dear. I 
don’t think you do. Just now you are working off a 
little irritation, is it not so?” 

And Jessica wondered where he had learnt all he knew. 

The soft spring day, weary with its unusual exertion, 
was creeping away, and the crocuses looked as if they 
realised their appearance had been a little premature. 

To Jessica the long, low library looked very soft in the 
gathering darkness, very soothing, rather pale-toned and 
like an old bit of tapestry, rich and harmonious, but faded 
and of another world. 

Suddenly she bent down and kissed the old man. 

“I shall always love you, Cousin Hugh.” 

“I hope you will, my dear. I hope most certainly you 
will.” 

Jessica’s sudden impetuosity had touched him. She 
did not usually display so much affection. 

“I must be going now,” she said, putting the precious 
violin in its case. “I have to get home and dress.” 

“You are going out to-night?” 

“One of our rare but wild orgies,” she laughed. “We 
are dining with Basil Lethbridge at the Savoy. We shall 
eat, drink and daixe, and return in good time to our 
chaste abode.” 

“Do you see much of Lethbridge? My dear child, a 





142 


WHIRLWIND 


great many have begun to drop him. His reputation- 

Doesn’t Desmond know?” 

“M— yes,” muttered Jessica, as she closed the violin 
case. “He enjoys a reputation that deprives a woman of 
hers if she is seen alone with him. But Desmond will be 
there and another woman to make a fourth. Is he so very 
bad?” enquired our innocent young creature. 

“I’ve told you what a good many people have begun 
to do,” answered the other. 

“Don’t you think people are apt to condemn as sin what 
they have no inclination to do themselves,” she asked a 
little wistfully. “I believe that’s how sin came into the 
world. Somebody did something somebody else didn’t 
like, and he said it was wrong. Do you know, I’m sorry 
for Lethbridge.” 

* * * * * 

Jessica wended her way home, wondering how it was 
that the man with too much reputation and the woman 
with none at all should yet meet on a common ground. 

And why should we point the finger of scorn if the 
rich and generous Lethbridge found scope for some of 
his liberality in the untidy little home in Battersea ? 

Perhaps Jessica rather enjoyed the sensation of playing 
with fire. It was her first experience, and though “the 
burnt child dreads the fire,” the wwburnt child always 
thinks it can strike a light. 

Every woman is said to love Don Juan because she 
wants to reform him. But it must be quite understood 
that he does not reform too quickly, in fact, it is almost 
better if he doesn’t reform at all. A good thing may be 
overdone, and too sudden a change in the habits of a life¬ 
time is bad for the health. 



WHIRLWIND 


143 


But it is a dangerous game altogether. Show me a 
saint reforming a sinner, and I will show you the first act 
of a tragedy. 

Jessica, however, had no intention of reforming Leth¬ 
bridge. She had an idea that reformed rakes, though 
they might make the best husbands, would probably turn 
out very stingy friends. 

And it is very doubtful if Lethbridge himself knew 
what reformation was. If he did, he might have defined 
it as a sort of old-age pension to keep the wicked out of 
hell. 

And as Jessica sat in the Battersea ’bus, in the midst 
of a row of more or less tired working people, who stared 
at her as one they neither could, nor would if they could, 
hold any truck with, she laughed to herself at Cousin 
Hugh’s cautionary words. Yes, she certainly enjoyed 
striking matches and watching the glow creep up till it 
nearly burnt her fingers. 

She was ignorant that half the world goes wrong 
simply from lack of variety. It is not that vice is so 
alluring as that monotony is so terribly repulsive. He 
who sees the sweets of life spread on every hand yet is 
debarred from his proper share, is he who most greedily 
eats of the forbidden fruit. 

Next day Cousin Hugh called on Aunt Elinor, 
and sat in his favourite chair, from whence he could 
see the portrait of Desmond’s mother in a good 
light. 

“She was a charming woman,” remarked Aunt Elinor, 
inclining towards the picture. 

“One of the most delightful I ever knew.” It was all 
Cousin Hugh ever permitted himself. 

Then Aunt Elinor led the conversation to Desmond, 


144 


WHIRLWIND 


and very soon the two grey heads were wagging together 
in close confabulation as to how they could help this 
obstinate young man who refused any help from any¬ 
one. 


XIV 


The Savoy has an appeal that surely no other restau¬ 
rant knows. There is a gaiety and light-heartedness, with 
a dash of Bohemian element about it that is its very own. 

Some restaurants are so pompous that hosts greet their 
guests as though about to proceed to a state funeral; while 
the guests themselves feel they should have brought 
wreaths. 

But at the Savoy people are not afraid of laughing and 
raising their voices, and, as a matter of fact, they do 
both. 

Jessica thought the place looked very bright on her ar¬ 
rival, and more of a contrast than ever to Battersea. 
Everyone had the air of always living in such places, 
and of not only going to them occasionally, as she did 
herself. And then, how cheerily they talked. But they 
were not so occupied with their conversation they had 
no time to notice Jessica. Her appearances in such places 
were so infrequent that few could tell who she was, 
though almost everybody wanted to know. So she 
created something of a sensation when she appeared; and 
as she went slowly down the long lounge towards the 
restaurant, a little silence fell on the laughing groups, and 
all eyes were turned to look, and all sorts of rumours were 
circulated regarding her identity. 

Jessica passed on, perfectly aware of the sensation she 
created, and showing no sign whatever that she knew. 

Lethbridge was one of the few people from the out- 


145 


146 


WHIRLWIND 


side world Jessica had encouraged to :all at the untidy 
little house. She found him easy to entertain, and he 
could put her “on to a good thing,” which was useful. The 
accuracy of his stable information was undoubted. Then 
he was good-natured and generous, if rather stupid, and 
was probably some ten years her senior. I don’t think 
she cared much about him really. 

“Your dancing isn’t your strong point, is it?” she 
observed, when, later in the evening, he smashed his way 
through the ballroom. 

“Such a bally crowd. Let’s go and sit out somewhere.” 

“Thanks! I prefer your dancing to your conversa¬ 
tion.” 

“What! Is it as bad as all that ?” And he roared with 
laughter at his perception of Jessica’s obvious remark, as 
though he had discovered something of great value. 

“He is stupid,” thought Jessica. “I wonder if all men 
are?” And her eyes fell on Desmond, dancing with the 
lady who had made the fourth at dinner. 

But Basil was stupid in an accepted way, and Desmond 
in a way that made successful people shrug their should¬ 
ers. And that makes a great difference. 

As the two couples passed, it struck Desmond that there 
was something very opulent and assertive about the big 
burly man. 

It was not a type he cared for, but Jessica seemed to 
have a predilection for the kind. 

Later on, Desmond’s partner retired to repair a torn 
frock, and he waited, hanging around the pillars at one 
end of the room till the damage was made good. And 
then Aunt Elinor’s words came back to him and he re¬ 
membered that he had certainly never heard of anything 
very much to Basil’s advantage. 



WHIRLWIND 


147 


And as he watched his wife and Lethbridge, he heard, 
just in front of him, a woman whisper something to the 
man who was sitting beside her. It was just a little short 
mocking remark as to Lethbridge and the woman he was 
dancing with, and the man laughed back, as though he 
agreed. As their backs were to him, Desmond moved in 
order to see the speakers’ faces and found the man to be 
known to him as a friend of Lethbridge’s. Probably the 
two had discussed Jessica together, handled her character 
lightly; it must be so for the man to have laughed and 
have answered the woman as he did. 

Again he saw them in the distance, Jessica held by 
Lethbridge as they one-stepped down the room. And 
then he read more than perhaps was as yet altogether 
written there. Lethbridge seemed to hold Jessica un¬ 
necessarily close. But she was her cool, unconscious self, 
looking up to his face and smiling the curious little smile 
you and I noticed as she sat by the fire one evening not 
so long ago. 

Desmond remembered that evening and recalled how 
irritated she had been. He recollected other evenings 
when she had spoken sharply; almost (if such a 
thing were possible) she had “nagged” him. Yet all 
this discontent and fault finding was surely not natural 
to her? 

It was all very strange, she had always hated “scenes.” 
What could have come over her? 

In these days she practised her violin hard, upstairs 
in their bedroom, as she had ever done. But it was no 
longer the even, systematic practice of old. Now she im¬ 
provised and played wild, mad music (such indeed as we 
heard in Hans Place that very afternoon). 

Often he had put aside his work and listened to the 


148 


WHIRLWIND 


strange sounds from upstairs that half disturbed, half 
fascinated. 

One thing he was sure of. Her intimacy with Leth¬ 
bridge must cease. He was beginning to think for the 
first time about his wife, ceasing to accept her as the 
simple vicarage girl he had met and fallen in love with, 
and realising there was a good deal more in the beautiful 
girl than the daughter of a small provincial town, so 
clever in “picking up” the manners and ways of the peo¬ 
ple he had been born and bred amongst. 

“How extraordinarily beautiful she is, and how that 
fellow knows it,” and he leaned against the pillar watch¬ 
ing her swaying lightly to the music, as though dancing 
had been invented for her special pleasure. 

* * * * * 

“I want to speak to you before we go upstairs.” 

They were home now. Lethbridge had driven them 
back in his car. Jessica had been gayer than ever and had 
prattled away, keeping their host in a roar of laughter 
from the Strand to Battersea. Now they were home 
again. The hooter of the car could be heard as Leth¬ 
bridge turned the corner at the end of the road. 

Desmond opened the door of the little sitting room, 
and when his wife had passed in, he followed and lit the 
lamp. The room looked very mean and small after the 
Savoy. The lamp gave a feeble light as though it re¬ 
sented being lit at such an unusual hour. The pettiness 
of the house, its out-at-elbows expression, suddenly 
swamped Jessica. 

“I want to go to bed,” she said. “You can have 
nothing to say important. Won’t to-morrow do?” 

“May as well get it over,” answered Desmond. 


WHIRLWIND 


149 


He had fixed the lamp now. The chimney and globe 
were friends again, and he turned to Jessica, not quite 
sure how to begin. She saved him the trouble. 

“What’s the matter?” 

Then her eye was caught by a parcel lying on the table. 
It was a registered parcel, evidently arrived by the last 
post. 

Desmond saw it too and perhaps a little clutch caught 
at his throat. The great hope had come back—returned 
with “Messrs. X. & X.’s compliments and thanks.” 

Jessica shrugged her shoulders. 

“Sorry,” she said carelessly, “hut I must own I ex¬ 
pected nothing else.” 

Indeed, she looked for all the masterpieces to come 
back. 

“Well, Desmond, what is it? If you’re going in for a 
long pow-wow, I tell you plainly, I can’t bear it. I shall 
scream.” 

But Desmond was still looking down at the manuscript, 
hardly able to realise it had come back. 

“I’m awfully sorry about this.” 

“The manuscript? Oh, that!” She spoke with con¬ 
tempt and her lip curled. At the moment she was heartily 
sick of books of every kind, and of Desmond’s in par¬ 
ticular. 

And the novel lay between them, laughing in its wrap¬ 
ping. Rejected manuscripts always laugh the first time 
they come back. After the second or third expedition 
they grow to look pathetic, and towards the end of their 
career, limp and negative, taking on the appearance of 
broken-down cab-horses. 

But Desmond had not meant to talk about his book. 

“I want to speak about Lethbridge. I want you to see 


150 


WHIRLWIND 


less of him. Don’t do it suddenly, of course. You can 
do it gradually. That’s all.” 

He spoke with an unusual air of authority. Perhaps 
the sight of his rejected book had flicked him into show¬ 
ing something of a fighting spirit. He had never used 
that firm tone of command before, and very likely at 
some other time Jessica might have appreciated and ad¬ 
mired the change, and then all might have gone well 
with these young people. But that hour was not the 
psychological moment, and she was feeling extraordi¬ 
narily tired, more so than such an evening should account 
for, and she felt also at complete variance with every¬ 
thing that had to do with her daily life, and that, alas, in¬ 
cluded Desmond and his book. Quickly she looked round 
the room. “What a hole it is,” she thought. 

“You understand, Jessica?” 

But Jessica laughed. She was almost glad if Desmond 
was going to quarrel at last. It would be a means of 
letting off steam. 

“Drop Lethbridge? Whatever for?” 

“I heard something at the Savoy, no matter what. But 
a man I know by sight and the woman with him were 
coupling you together in a way I can’t stand. I’m sure 
you see what I mean.” 

“I see you want me to give up one of the few people 
with whom I can feel any genuine friendship.” 

“But now you know the sort of man he is. And 
everybody knows it, even people like Aunt Elinor.” 

“What nonsense! What does she know of the world?” 

“A good deal more than you, Jessica. And I tell you 
I know-” 

But Jessica cut him short by rising abruptly and going 
to the door. 


WHIRLWIND 


I 5 i 

“One moment, please.” Again that new, firm tone of 
authority, peremptory, yet courteous. 

This was the Desmond his people knew, for whom they 
had once held such hopes! And almost against her will, 
she had to listen. 

“Those two were discussing Lethbridge’s character 
_? > 

“Pulling it to pieces, you mean. I didn’t know you 
listened to gossip.” 

Jessica was inwardly seething. Desmond’s new man¬ 
ner irritated her. She was also desirous to say something 
cutting, but to her disgust found she was being merely 
peevish. 

“To listen to such gossip--” 

“They were not gossiping, Jessica, not in that sense, 
they were discussing what they both knew: Lethbridge’s 
reputation, your reputation. Wondering what sort of 
accommodating husband I might be. Now will you do as 
I ask?” 

“No.” She spoke in the moment without thought. But 
in the mood she was in then, had Desmond asked her to 
be unusually gracious to Basil she would most likely have 
said no. 

“But your name—yourself—were discussed. The situa¬ 
tion between you and this man taken for granted as the 
worst.” 

“Lots of people are talked about with no shadow of 
reason,” she answered. “He’s a kind friend, and you are 
simply making yourself ridiculous because of some fool¬ 
ish remarks you heard a jealous woman make.” 

“They were merely saying what apparently everyone 
knows. They were talking as people do about what 
admits of no contradiction,” 




152 


WHIRLWIND 


“Are you referring to my reputation now?” 

“I am referring to his. I met Townsend afterwards. 
I pointed out the woman to him. She had been Leth¬ 
bridge’s mistress.” 

“That explains it, doesn’t it?” 

“He also told me that what I’d heard about Lethbridge 
was true.” 

“How interesting! But must you go on and on saying 
the same thing over and over again? The woman was 
jealous because she saw me and Basil together.” 

“No, she was not. She was merely disgustingly 
amused.” 

“Anyway, they can’t have been people that matter. 
And is our position so prominent we need to be careful 
not to set tongues wagging?” 

Desmond had been first surprised, now he began to 
grow angry, and the woman inwardly rejoiced. For had 
not one of the links that bound her threatened to snap? 
But sad to relate, otherwise she was not the least dis¬ 
turbed. It mattered nothing that her character was held 
in somewhat low esteem, and the worst possible construc¬ 
tion put upon her conduct. Indeed, I fear that instead 
of feeling regret at such unenviable notoriety, she was 
just a little flattered. She turned and looked at Desmond 
and saw with real amusement the surprise written large 
upon his face. A little contempt stole into her own for 
the puritanism in his character. She spoke. 

“Why such a fuss about a careless word, probably for¬ 
gotten by the woman long since ?” 

Then a wish to defy Desmond came, and she asked: 

“Am I to be kept like a Sultana—shut up in this wonder¬ 
ful harem?” And she gazed round the small shabby sit¬ 
ting room, at the central round table ? and the lamp 


WHIRLWIND 


153 


smoking to the ceiling, which both had been too occupied 
to notice. She had nothing but supreme scorn for the 
whole affair, and it must be owned she looked extra¬ 
ordinarily out of place in it. 

“You know perfectly well that’s nonsense. I don’t 
ask much—I insist on this one thing. You will give 
up this man’s acquaintance. After all, you are my 
wife.” 1 

“Your wife, oh! There’s no need to remind me of 
that. Every day’s experience rubs it in.” 

“Well, then, understand I will not have my wife’s 
name bandied about-” 

“Oh,” she interrupted fiercely, all her old sense of re¬ 
volt, her hate of their sordid life, rushing to her lips, “for 
God’s sake don’t talk like the hero in one of your novels. 
I really couldn’t stand that. What on earth does it matter 
how people talk about us? How can it hurt us? What 
position have we? What shall we ever have?” she added 
bitterly. 

And Desmond made no answer. He did not under¬ 
stand this tall defiant girl who poured out such biting, 
sarcastic words. Where was the young girl from the 
small provincial town who knew so little? And which 
of the two—ah! which indeed?—was the real Jessica he 
had married ? 

Instinctively he righted the lamp that smoked and stank 
so viciously, and instantly the room took a deeper gloom. 
To put up a fight against a woman is hard for any man 
—unless that man has something of the brute in him. 
Desmond was very much a boy at heart. Just then he 
looked very young and boyish indeed, and he felt help¬ 
less, as a man might who, swimming far out to sea, 
beyond the sight of land, on looking round discovers the 





154 


WHIRLWIND 


boat he thought to be accompanying, has suddenly, inex¬ 
plicably, disappeared. 

And Jessica knew that Desmond was hurt and 
surprised and disappointed in her, and she was angered. 
She would far rather have met her master, but she 
only saw before her “a nice boy” who was desperately 
in love with her, and somehow she longed to wound 
him. 

And then his eye fell on that manuscript that lay and 
winked at him. The work that took so long, that he was 
so very sure would prove the first step to fortune. There 
it lay—carefully sealed and registered! What a mockery! 
It was almost comic! 

Could Jessica at that moment have spoken but one 
gentle word, have forgotten herself for only one instant, 
how very different this story might have been. But it 
was not in her character at that age. She was young, 
with all the hardness of youth strong upon her. She 
could only feel the anger of a woman when she 
finds her menfolk fail her—the contempt of the mediaeval 
woman when she watched her champion go down before 
her in the lists. She was angered with the man who 
dared to hold her from the gratification of her desires, 
yet contemptuous of him in that he so entirely failed in 
strength that should force her to obey his legitimate com¬ 
mands. She was modern to her finger-tips, yet mediaeval 
to the core. Modern, she would go down into the street, 
seize on this, grab at that, whatever caught her fancy. 
Mediaeval, she disdained to struggle and looked for one 
to do the hard work for her. 

She rapped smartly the parcel, eloquent in its muteness, 
flamboyant with stamps and label, string and blue lines of 
registration, 


WHIRLWIND 


155 

“What shall we ever know,” she said again, “but this, 
and this, and this, over and over again?” 

“It’s only one. There are other publishers.” 

“To treat it exactly as these have.” 

The words were hard, but the voice that spoke them 
sounded harder still. He had never thought that soft 
voice of hers could take so fine an edge. He felt some¬ 
how extraordinarily young, of utter insignificance. She, 
on the other hand, looked older than she was. It was 
part of the change that had come to her. She had now a 
look in her eyes as of one who saw things back in the 
past and, so seeing, could look also into the future. As 
old as the ages was that look—primitive—prehistoric— 
that of the hundreds who knew the game—was hers at 
last. 

Jessica felt she was hurting. It was a new and won¬ 
derful sensation. It thrilled her, taking away any feeling 
she had had of weariness. She knew she had recovered 
the kingdom at last; and she laughed that her entrance 
thereto was through the heart of a man. She would go 
that way or any way, so long as she might go. 

“You will never succeed. Never! Never!” she cried. 

“Jessica!” 

“I know it as well as I know we two are in this room. 
Every time you take up your pen to write you are writing 
your own death warrant! You are trying to do some¬ 
thing for which you have only taste, little talent, and no 
genius. It makes me mad to see the foolishness, the 
futility, the waste of it all. Eve had nearly three years 
of this squalor. I cannot—I will not—go on waiting. 
You have no right to ask me with my youth, my beauty, 
my right—yes, my right—for all that should be mine. 
Had you listened to what everyone told you, we should 


156 


WHIRLWIND 


now be in comfort and not suffering this meanness. I 
loathe with all my soul this cheap furniture, cheap food, 
cheap clothes. There is misery in cheapness,” cried poor 
Jessica, ignorantly quoting a great philosopher. “And 
I’ve borne just as much as I can.” 

Her complaint had poured out like a torrent. All the 
irritation, the nervous excitement, the packed emotion 
that hitherto had escaped in music took form and 
fashioned itself into words. 

“Why bring that up now? It’s beside the point.” 

“It’s the very point itself.” 

“I’d no idea, I never thought—” 

And Jessica looked at him and laughed, her long fingers 
impatiently tapping the manuscript. What did it matter 
what he thought or imagined? Did she not see free¬ 
dom before her? Did she not scent the delightful rosy 
fields of ease, and was not the glamour of the world 
opening upon her? And she made the man before her 
wince. 

Yes, the old soul was roused at last—that soul wise 
with aeons of time and it whispered: “Now is your hour 
—now—now or never.” 

“For the sake of a moment’s pleasure, you don’t mind 
what people say. That’s the position you’re prepared to 
face,” cried Desmond. 

“Position! Position doesn’t appeal very much. There’s 
always someone got a better! It’s life I ask.” 

Then came a sudden change. A break and sob in the 
voice, and quickly her face was hidden in her hands and, 
to her own intense surprise, she burst into sobs, long, 
deep, shaking sobs, that were half pity for herself, and 
half chagrin and anger that she wept. 

Instantly he was with her, instantly his anger melted 


WHIRLWIND 


157 


into loving words, and seeking to comfort her, he took 
her tenderly into his arms. 

But the feel of him was fire on a wound, and for the 
moment she almost hated him. That curious distaste for 
her husband a woman often feels at such times was strong 
upon her; tired as she was, the late hour, the excitement, 
the elation, the touch of this man with whom she knew 
she had finally broken, filled her with repulsion and loath¬ 
ing for him. 

“Let me alone, Desmond/’ 

“Jessica.” 

“Do you hear me? Let me alone.” 

He had her in his arms, her shrinking body warm to 
his own, and while all the male in him rose in desire for 
her, the woman herself, with unnatural strength, 
wrenched herself free and, passing quickly out of the 
door, went to her room! 

And that action raised the man to the full sense of his 
manhood. Was he to be baulked, outraged and indecently 
cheated out of his rights? Three steps at a time he was 
up the stairs and at their bedroom door. 

“Open the door,” he cried. 

“Be careful, Desmond. Be careful, I say.” 

“Open the door. Do you hear me ?” 

He rattled the handle, shook the door. Nothing from 
the other side. What was she doing? Should he break 
in? That would rouse the whole house, create a scene— 
most probably a scandal. 

Better, perhaps, to do nothing till morning. He went 
back to the little sitting-room and fell into the one easy 
chair. 


XV 


There can be no two opinions as to who carried off 
the laurels in this first pitched battle between husband 
and wife. It had been a very complete triumph for the 
lady. As to which of them may have won a moral 
victory, that is another question. But who cares about a 
moral victory? It brings no kudos with it. It is, after 
all, merely a form of self-righteousness. 

And now I have to relate something that must distress 
any right-minded person. That something is that Jessica 
slept exceedingly well that night, and woke up the next 
morning feeling thoroughly refreshed for her night’s 
sound sleep. 

But it took a good deal to keep Jessica awake. She 
always tumbled off to sleep the instant her head touched 
the pillow; and why, indeed, should she have kept awake 
that night when she had just come to a settlement of her 
plans and saw her way clear before her? 

It is not peace and certainty and a sense of well-being, 
but their contraries keep us awake. 

Jessica had seldom felt so much at peace with herself. 
What more natural, therefore, than that she should sleep? 

And after the somewhat tempestuous ending of the 
last chapter, and the sad state of discord in which we left 
our young people, it is delightful to record a scene of 
reconciliation. 

Let, therefore, the right-minded person, who has no 
158 


WHIRLWIND 


159 


doubt beeil virtuously shocked at the dormouse-like pro¬ 
pensities of Jessica, take heart again and watch with you 
and me the beauty of conjugal felicity as it showed itself 
in Battersea. 

Jessica had barely awakened the morning after her 
quarrel with Desmond, when she heard his voice calling 
to her from the other side of the locked door. 

“I’ve brought you your breakfast. Please open the 
door.” 

Jessica was so astonished that she jumped up and did 
as requested before she knew what she was about. This 
attention on Desmond’s part was quite unexpected, and 
she permitted herself the luxury of a little gratitude. I 
wish I could add and of a little contrition also. 

“It’s awfully good of you,” she said, when, having let 
him in, she had curled up in bed again. “I really am 
tired to-day. I am sure I don’t know why.” 

“.Perhaps you’ll be better after breakfast,” Desmond 
suggested. 

“You are a good fellow,” she answered. She was sip¬ 
ping her coffee and felt sympathetic to all the world. The 
coffee was strong and hot for once. She presumed Des¬ 
mond had seen to it specially. “What made you trouble 
to wait on me like this ?” she asked. 

“I was sorry—for last night. I didn’t want anyone to 
think there’d been a row.” 

“How like him! Anything to keep up appearances,” 
she thought; and said aloud: “What does it matter what 
Mrs. Fletcher thinks? I’m afraid you must have spent 
a wretched night.” 

Jessica could not help but be amused. The idea of 
Desmond sitting up all night in that uncomfortable sit¬ 
ting-room in his dress clothes conjured up unique visions. 


i6o 


WHIRLWIND 


She was feeling very comfortable herself and enjoying 
her breakfast immensely. 

Meantime Desmond was stripping rapidly, taking off 
creased, untidy shirt and putting away the rumpled 
clothes till they could be properly pressed and ironed. 
They looked very garish in the daylight—almost disre¬ 
putable. Jessica lay back in her bed and lazily took a 
good look at her husband. 

“Do you know you’re a very good-looking fellow?” 

Desmond only smiled for answer. This complimentary 
talk of his wife was a strange continuation of last night’s 
outburst. The same idea must have occurred to Jessica, 
for presently she said: 

“I really couldn’t help it. I had to be alone last 
night.” 

“That’s all right.” 

Now Desmond had brought Jessica her breakfast, not 
merely to throw dust in the landlady’s eyes, but also to 
have it out about Lethbridge once and for all. But how 
was he to do that if Jessica took this line? And yet I’m 
sure she meant well, and think it very proper of her to 
want to make up their differences. 

“Have a cup of coffee and some toast? For once it’s 
not burned. Be a lamb and do as your wife tells you,” 
and she held out a nice piece of buttered toast for his 
acceptance. 

And really are we to be blamed if at first we fail to 
recognise in this sweet and engaging young person, the 
hard and unsympathetic female of the night before who 
uttered such appalling sentiments and finished up the 
proceedings by shutting the door in her husband’s 
face ? 

Now is she all softness and sweetness and seduction. 


WHIRLWIND 


161 


She reminds me of a cat in the sunshine, lying on its back 
and purring to one to come and play. Desmond thought 
her irresistible, but he also thought her—well, something 
else. Evidently she had not allowed their quarrel to in¬ 
terrupt her rest: and while he had been pacing the room 
below half the night, she had let nothing interfere with 
her slumbers. Clearly she was unrepentant, and while 
he felt the full charm of her he recognized, and with 
something of a shock, that she left him rather cold and, 
for the first time, critical. Charm she never so cleverly, 
or cajole ever so adroitly, Desmond could not forget the 
episode of the night quite so speedily. 

“I’m going to have a bath,” he said, taking no notice 
of the proffered toast. “When I’ve come back and 
dressed, I’d like a word with you.” And almost as he 
spoke he left the room. 

“How tiresome,” sighed Jessica. 

For Jessica had no intention of allowing any re-open¬ 
ing of last night’s discussion, if she could help it. Des¬ 
mond might “like a word,” but it would not be her fault 
if that “word” were ever uttered. 

Accordingly, when Desmond returned, washed and 
shaved, and looking more himself, he found his wife 
already up and, in her turn, waiting for the bath. 

“How long you’ve been,” she cried. 

“I didn’t know you’d be up.” 

“I feel rested now. Your kind attentions, dear boy.” 
And off she went before he could say another 
word. 

However, she supposed that after all the talk was in¬ 
evitable. Desmond seemed determined on that point, 
she thought, foolishly. Why not continue as though 
nothing disagreeable had happened? 


WHIRLWIND 


162 

“But I intend,” said the lady, “that the skirmish shall 
take place at a time that suits me.” 

Now, as a matter of fact, she had not spent the whole 
night in sleep. 

Before she had sought her couch, Jessica had steadily 
reviewed the situation, and finally decided what she meant 
to do. That was a great weight off her mind. But she 
didn’t mean to do it just yet. In that case, how silly to 
quarrel with Desmond about what really didn’t matter 
if she really had made up her mind? It is far pleasanter 
to be “nice” with people; even if they happen to be 
relations. 

“Why live in a state of unfriendliness while we do live 
together? It would be disagreeable for me, and not 
pleasant for him. After all he’s a nice boy. I don’t want 
to hurt him more than can be helped.” 

Which shows she really was kind at heart, and was 
only cruel through force of circumstances. 

“I should like his last recollections of me to be pleas¬ 
ant,” she said to herself, as she slipped into the bath and 
began what is called to “luxuriate” therein. 

It is a great thing to have the courage of one’s con¬ 
victions. Before dropping off into the refreshing sleep 
of innocence, Jessica had fully thought out her plan of 
campaign. And the moment she made her decision, she 
jumped into bed with a delightful and hitherto unknown 
sense of power. She had chosen a somewhat adventurous 
road; none could say exactly what might happen; but at 
least it would be exciting, and the travelling thereof easy, 
with everything made pleasant and comfortable. It 
looked a smooth, soft and fragrant way, and oh, how sore 
her feet were with limping down the flinty, thorny, nar¬ 
row path! Where was the fun of hobbling over stones 


WHIRLWIND 


163 

after a quixotic husband, when motor cars, special trains, 
and palaces of light and beauty were to be had for the 
taking! 

No wonder Jessica felt gay and light-hearted, and 
splashed joyously in her bath. 

“A fool and his ways are past finding out,” she quoted, 
and added to herself, “A fool and his wife are soon 
parted.” 

Mrs. Fletcher’s bathroom was used for many purposes 
besides ablutions. It was called “the bathroom” because 
it sounded well, but it might just as well have been called 
“the boxroom” or “the housemaid's room,” or “the lum¬ 
ber room.” With its collection of pails, brushes, old bags 
and broken chairs, it partook of the nature of all these, 
and its only claim to the title of “bathroom” was the com¬ 
mon little zinc bath in a dusty corner. 

Still, Jessica managed to do fairly well. Such soap, 
such salts, such powder, such odds and ends of comfort 
as she deemed absolutely essential to cleanliness her Tow- 
chester friends would have gazed on with awe, would 
maybe have considered effete, if not a little indecent. Yet 
Jessica knew of infinitely nicer salts and soaps, but at 
prohibitive prices. Then, were there not creams? Yea, 
and maids? Experts in massage? And how on earth 
could one powder one’s own back? 

Splashing and looking down at her limbs, Jessica 
dreamed visions of sunken marble or silver baths. And 
she wondered which was the more expensive! 

Said she to herself: “Dark blue—lapis lazuli—and 
walls of marble also. And I don’t see why one should 
not have plants in the room. They would be pleasanter 
than Mrs. Fletcher’s pails. But the room would be large 
and in its way as beautiful as one’s boudoir. I would 


WHIRLWIND 


164 

have nothing ugly in it. All the accessories would be 
kept in a cabinet off the bathroom itself. Just the sunk 
bath and a few plants and a marble bench for one s bath 
wrap! Dear me! How delightful it is to have such 
simple and expensive tastes.” 

Then she slowly got out of the water that was no longer 
warm, and wrapped herself in a quite ordinary bathgown, 
and went without her maid, or powdered back or massage, 
or manicure either, and many other “odds and ends of 
comfort” her soul demanded. 

Thus did she return to her bedroom to find Desmond 
had finished dressing and was waiting to re-open the 
affair of the night before. But she knew now in what 
manner of way to treat him, and disarmed him by her con¬ 
trition, and bamboozled the poor fool completely with her 
humbleness. 

“Dear old boy,” the sweet girl cooed, when Desmond 
began hesitatingly and awkwardly to explain how “I hate 
to have a row with you Jessica. I didn’t sleep a wink all 
night for thinking about it.” “Dear old boy, need we 
rake all that up again?” 

And she went up to him and put her hands on his 
shoulders and smiled up at him, all soft and yielding; and 
then her arms went round his neck, and kissing and coax¬ 
ing, she smoothed his face into smiles. 

“Didn’t it sleep a wink for thinking of its horrid wife? 
Yes, I know I was tired, but that’s no excuse. Do smile 
and be your old self, and I promise to be a perfect wife 
and do all my lord and master commands. Do.” 

Charming picture, is it not? What could be more 
edifying than the repentant wife properly submitting to 
an injured husband? Fresh, sweet and scented from her 
bath, she cuddled to his arms and took her first real 


WHIRLWIND 


165 

lesson in the art of Delilah. She let her hair brush his 
face and raised her lips till they just didn't touch his own. 
She smiled all devotion and gazed with eyes all love, and 
pressed her body, that the robe more revealed than hid, 
close to his, and looked in very truth a sweet, repentant 
child asking forgiveness for some trifling fault. 

“You are so beautiful, dearest, you must be careful of 
jealous tongues. Oh, my dear, I didn’t realise you were 
so beautiful.” 

What else should a man, young and lusty, flesh and 
blood, do, but let Delilah shear him as she chose ? It had 
been a great lesson. She had learnt a lot, and put the 
finishing touch by freely owning that she “had been fool¬ 
ish and that it would be much better not to see quite so 
much of Lethbridge in future.” 

“Only do it gracefully, darling. It would look odd to 
dismiss him suddenly.” 

She was sitting at the rickety little dressing-table by 
that time, doing her hair before the peculiarly coloured 
mirror provided for that purpose. Samson was shorn, 
his tresses were all about her, so she had time to attend to 
her own. Her arms, round and white, were raised to lift 
the thick masses of that glory. They showed to singular 
advantage in that position. 

“Leave it to me,” said Jessica. “I can manage it quite 
well without hurting his feelings.” 

Thus, happy in his mind once more, Desmond left the 
room, and as he went out of the door she blew him a 
kiss. She really couldn’t be expected to get up. Besides, 
she had had enough study, and was ready to throw her 
book aside, Delilah was always a good girl at her lessons, 
quite a model pupil in fact. 

So Desmond closed the door behind him and left her 


WHIRLWIND 


166 

to her dressing. And that moment down came the arms 
to her lap, the whole mass of coppery loveliness tumbled 
over neck and shoulders, away flew smile and sparkle 
from her eyes as she gazed and gazed again at the face 
gazing back from the cheap little lodging-house mirror. 

She looked long and steadily, studying with impartial 
eyes, as though the face she saw was that of some rival 
she would criticise. But however detached, however un¬ 
biassed, however severe she would be in her strictures, 
she could find no fault in the face so serenely looking 
from the mirror as though it were real and itself studying 
the face of her who sat so calmly in her chair. 

Some women love to toy with their gems, appraising 
their value out of sheer sensual satisfaction in their pos¬ 
session. 

Jessica, having no jewels, gazed at her own loveliness, 
appraising and valuing it. She weighed each item separ¬ 
ately and compared it to other beauty she had seen, en¬ 
deavouring to be honest and just. 

When she had done this she rose and stood opposite 
the little wardrobe’s long narrow strip of glass that just 
managed to reflect her figure at full length. Then quickly 
and deliberately slipped off her covering till it fell to the 
ground and, stepping from it, she stared at the naked 
white body, going right up to the glass that she might 
examine better the picture before her. 

“You are very beautiful, even in that beastly glass,” 
she said. 

Again she took a mental inventory and, as before, with 
severe criticism. There was no conceit in her action, no 
sensual gloating, no lascivious desire either. She was 
merely accurately cataloguing the goods she had to sell. 
She had no intention of letting them go cheap. 


WHIRLWIND 


167 


Therefore she worked very minutely. Even her feet 
were bared, and her hair was thrown well down her back 
lest it should get in the way of her vision. She rather 
believed that “poets had written sonnets to the lovely feet 
of certain women.” Personally she did not think a foot 
was a very attractive object. Still, poets had raved about 
them and might again. And very carefully did Jessica 
examine hers. 

No! There was nothing amiss with either of them. 
Small, white and slim, they matched her hands. 

“One should visit a chiropodist at least once a month. 
I suppose a good maid would do in between. But I don’t 
like the idea of the same person doing my hands and my 
feet, somehow.” 

It will be noted Jessica’s ideas were growing! 

Then she proceeded to her calves, noting the slim ankle 
and sweep of line up to the thigh. She felt them firm 
and strong, but feminine. There was no question they 
could be a boy’s, and certainly they were not like Des¬ 
mond’s. 

“They are absurdly smooth,” she thought, as she passed 
her hands over them. “They feel like a beautiful white 
statue.” A contrast to Desmond’s, which she remem¬ 
bered as rough and hairy. “There is a good deal in con¬ 
trast,” she murmured, turning so as to see herself in 
profile. 

Then she examined each leg as a whole. Straight, 
firm, beautifully curved, right up to the waist. No, there 
seemed no fault at all! 

Carefully turning again lest anything escape her, she 
noted the delicious little valley running down between the 
little rising hillocks of her breasts. The little valley was 
so ligjit, so shadowy, it was like a little cloud riding be- 


WHIRLWIND 


168 

tween two full moons, or like a little dark stream dividing 
the hills, and they themselves were like beds of lilies 
crowned with a little rosy shrine. Then she stood back 
to the glass and looking over her shoulder laughed at the 
straight line down her back, to be lost in the round white 
flesh that curved in such a fine sweep to join the strong 
pillars her little feet supported. Once more, face to face, 
with her reflection, she raised her arms above her head 
and drew herself to her full height. And now her little 
breasts looked like doves, standing on tip-toe, ready to 
take their flight. Her lips were parted in laughter at 
sheer joy in their own loveliness, her eyes danced like 
fireflies in the deep blue of a summer night. Wonderful, 
wonderful, the head; and wonderful, wonderful, the long 
hair like spun copper. A man might hide in that hair, 
and it fell in ripples down her back like flowing water. 
She threw back her head, and saw the long, graceful neck 
stretch as asking for a lover’s kiss. 

Very exquisite. So exquisite that we who look feel 
nothing but a complete satisfaction at the sight of so 
much loveliness. Yet Jessica was very candid. “She 
could do with a trifle more filling out.” That was all to 
the good, however. There was plenty of time before her, 
and what she saw was very good and worth many pearls 
and tiaras. 

One more look, one more smile, and turn, and then she 
put the inventory in some mental safety place, and pro¬ 
ceeded with her dressing in the most prosaic and common¬ 
place manner you could imagine. 

She came downstairs humming a little song and was so 
sympathetic about the returned masterpiece that the author 
was almost persuaded into a conviction regarding the 
ignorance of most publishers’ readers, 


WHIRLWIND 


169 


“Why not send it to Y. & Y., darling? But must you 
really go out this morning? Can’t you stay at home?” 

“I have to see Hawkes about some short stories. I told 
you yesterday, you know.” 

She had quite forgotten, but you wouldn’t have her 
confess to such carelessness, would you? 

“How stupid of me. Yes, of course. Won’t this after¬ 
noon do?” 

“I’ve the whole day full, I’m afraid. I shall probably 
lunch with Maxwell at an A.B.C. in Fleet Street. He’s 
going to introduce me to ‘The Mayfair’ people.” 

“Oh, my dear, will you be away all that time?” Jes¬ 
sica’s face fell. “Never mind, I’ll have a good practice 
and see if you want any mending done.” 

Desmond was intensely amused at the idea of Jessica 
being so domestic, but he supposed she wanted to atone 
for last night. He laughed all the way down the street, 
all the way to the city; in fact, he frequently wearied his 
brother scribes with descriptions of how that wonderful 
girl was “sitting at home making my socks more secretive 
than they were.” 

Unfortunately the picture had no reality in fact. What 
did “that wonderful girl” do the instant he went down 
the street and almost before he had turned the corner ? 
Well, Desmond, she took stock of you, just as a while 
ago she had taken stock of herself, and she came to the 
conclusion that, nice as you might be, you didn’t quite 
compensate after all. 

Desmond did not turn at the corner and wave. Still, 
should he have done so, no doubt but her critical ex¬ 
pression would have changed to smiles. She might even 
have gone so far as to kiss her hand to him. Who 
knows? She was very lovingly disposed that morning. 


WHIRLWIND 


170 

But Desmond pursued his way without looking round, 
and naturally Jessica went back into the house when he 
disappeared. But not to see if anything wanted mending, 
at least, I’m afraid not! As a matter of fact, by that 
time any such idea had passed out of her mind. What did 
not pass out of her mind, however, was that, very cleverly, 
she had ascertained all Desmond’s movements till tea- 
time. 

Now if he should be spending the day hanging about 
editors’ offices, and if he was going to lunch at an A.B.C. 
in Fleet Street, he would not be likely to see her lunching 
at the Ritz with a man he didn’t like. 

But she had her practice first, a steady, methodical, hard 
grind that would have delighted her old music master, 
and did not, as it had done on numerous occasions lately, 
reduce Sarah to a state of pulp and upset Mrs. Fletcher 
till she “jest felt nohow.” 

Her practice over, Jessica felt the satisfied feeling of 
the artist who knows she has done well. She had found 
out something more of technique, had put a something 
more into her work than she had ever put before, and 
that was a very satisfactory feeling indeed. 

Then she went to the nearest call office and ’phoned 
confirming the luncheon engagement she had left more or 
less open the night before. 

But even in doing that she contrived to convey the im¬ 
pression that she would be conferring a vast favour in 
eating an expensive and specially ordered menu instead 
of the cold “mutting” that would be awaiting her at home. 
She had no wish to create the effect. But the man at the 
other end, when told “that Mrs. Antrobus would lunch 
at 1.30” felt most extraordinarily honoured. 

Then last of all Jessica returned home and had a good 


WHIRLWIND 


171 

think how she could make herself more than usually at¬ 
tractive for this very particular luncheon. 

Whatever she did the result was eminently satisfac¬ 
tory. At least Lethbridge thought so, as she sat opposite 
him scarcely eating the very priceless food before her, 
what time Desmond was hastily swallowing an unpleasant 
bun and cup of coffee that held an aroma somehow sug¬ 
gestive of tea. It was rather a sharp contrast, perhaps, 
but as Jessica had said to herself only that morning, 
“There’s a good deal in contrast.” 

Looking at her host she had all the sensation of a cat 
playing with a mouse before eating it. This does not 
mean that Lethbridge was regaling Jessica on cold mouse. 
They do not serve mice at the Ritz, though I do not doubt 
that we have often eaten it in Soho. But there it was 
called “cold quail in aspic,” and I’m sure we never noticed 
the difference. 

And if this sounds repulsive, take to heart the moral, 
and do not eat cold quail either in aspic or Soho. It is 
quite easy not to do so. On the other hand one is per¬ 
fectly safe with hot quail. The first mouthful will betray 
the difference between hot quail and hot mouse. But 
cold quail can be most deceiving. 

Jessica thoroughly enjoyed playing with the situation. 
It roused a sense of the dramatic she had not known she 
possessed. It gave her a cosy, satisfactory feeling to 
know she could advance by one step from something like 
penury to something almost approaching splendour. It 
was a step, too, that could be only taken once. And that 
made it so interesting. 

Now Jessica had not taken that inventory in the morn¬ 
ing for the mere pleasure of making a catalogue; she had 
done it from set purpose and one not altogether uncon- 


172 


WHIRLWIND 


nected with that easy and pleasant movement that would 
take her into more congenial surroundings. But she 
would not go at once, and certainly not unless it was 
made well worth her while. 

She knew that while she had in her pocket little more 
than her ’bus fare home, one word from her and hence 
forth she need want for nothing. The feast was spread 
and was hers to taste. The meal was tempting. It was 
hard to refrain. But she was artist enough to appreciate 
a preliminary walk round the tables first. 

Then it was all reprehensible and wrong, and that was 
half the fun of it! Oh, yes, half the pleasure of eating 
stolen fruit lies in the stealing. Very childish—we are all 
children at heart—and of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. 
Then she realised it was a joy never to be repeated. 
Once she chose her seat and took her place she would 
have to remain where she had sat. She might move up 
or down, even with luck from side to side, but it would 
be the same table, and much the same fare, only with the 
early glamour gone. 

So all Basil’s entreaties and suggestions and plans Jes¬ 
sica turned aside with a jest. But not so lightly as to 
make him feel ridiculous, or so severely as to make him 
feel snubbed. 

It was an amusing game, and she had never known 
before how easily a man could be bluffed. She was learn¬ 
ing that now for the first time. 

“Last night, and I could have sworn you’d made up 
your mind,” said the man. 

“I have too great a mind to be made up quickly,” re¬ 
plied the woman. 

“Then you’d better begin seeing about it pretty soon.” 

It was not a nice speech and Lethbridge was growing 



WHIRLWIND 


173 


sulky. But that only made Jessica want to laugh. How¬ 
ever, she had not done with him yet, and meant to get 
him into a better mood again before she finished. To 
this purpose she played about with her empty liqueur glass 
till Basil took the hint and proposed “another brandy and 
curacao.” 

When these refreshments arrived, however, Jessica 
found she could not manage hers and insisted on Basil 
drinking both. 

It’s wonderful what an extra glass will do when you’ve 
had enough already. 

“How much longer are you going to keep me hanging 
about ?” 

Now Jessica meant to take the chair that Lethbridge 
offered, but not to grab what should be taken delicately 
and with the air of an epicure. But he was not yet quite 
in the mood she meant to leave him in, which was to be 
something between doubt and certainty, with two to one 
on certainty. 

“It’s rather a lot you ask—to run away with you— 
don’t you think? If I go, well, the future becomes rather 
an unknown quantity, doesn’t it ?” 

Then she thought of her equivalent for pearls and dia¬ 
monds, and the remembrance gave her power. “One 
doesn’t bolt with the milkman unless his cans are full of 
cream, and one of them at least is coming your way.” 

By which we see that if our Jessica occasionally failed 
in exhibiting the gentleness of the dove, she could be 
relied on to give an excellent exhibition of the wisdom of 
the serpent. 

Warmed with the champagne and food, and really set 
on the woman who, as yet, was any man’s, Lethbridge 
leant forward and renewed a former proposition. 


174 


WHIRLWIND 


But Jessica spread out her hands eloquently and as¬ 
sumed her most innocent air. 

“My dear boy, suppose I don’t want to marry you after 
the divorce? Or you might be tired of me then, well, 
where do I come in? I couldn’t go back to Desmond like 
one of Bo-peep’s sheep. This little experiment you pro¬ 
pose means much more to the woman than it does to the 
man.” 

“I’ll double my offer. What’s more my solicitor shall 
settle the money on you the day you join me. That’s good 
enough, surely.” 

It was more than good enough and surprised her con¬ 
siderably. She had only looked to be quite sure where 
she would land when she leapt, but if the rich man chose 
to call “Diamonds,” she felt fully justified in doubling. 

And so she smiled, and looked very sweet and pathetic, 
and a little petulant, as though she were not yet sufficiently 
hardened to yield, and indeed had never meant anything 
like this and wondered if it were yet possible to lead him 
to a higher life. But all the while she was only consider¬ 
ing if he were good for a better bid. 

“Charming specimens of humanity, you and I, aren’t 
we ?” she murmured with something like a sigh. 

Now the man had a very genuine passion for this wo¬ 
man. Also a great desire to be the first in the field. 
Sooner or later she would go off with someone. It had 
become almost a point of honour with Lethbridge to be 
the first! He knew her type, and had little respect for it. 

Jessica picked up her gloves. On the whole she had 
not played her game so badly. Surely it was legitimate 
that if a man, especially a rich man, chose to take a wife 
from her happy home, he should be made to pay pretty 
smartly for the experience. 


WHIRLWIND 


175 

But Lethbridge was not exactly a man to be trifled 
with. 

“I’m darned sick of all this shilly-shally. I’m off to 
Paris next week and then to the south. The yacht’s there. 
If you care to come, say so. If not, we’ll part pals, that’s 
all.” 

Jessica drew on her gloves slowly. It was up to her 
to say “yes,” or some wiser woman might take her place 
at the table. 

And as she stood by the little round table with that 
little enigmatical smile we know so well upon her lips, I 
think she felt a little sorry things were not otherwise, 
and such an irrevocable step necessary. She looked out 
of the window towards the Green Park. A faint fog 
crept about the bare trees, the grass looked dirty and no 
sun lifted the heads of the crocuses. It was warm in the 
restaurant, but a treacherous wind waited round the cor¬ 
ner outside, and Lethbridge had spoken of the golden 
south and yachts. 

“You ask a good deal. After all, I have a conscience 
-” And at that moment I think she really had. 

“Funny it should begin to wake up now.” 

“I don’t think I realised-” She broke off and he 

rose in his turn. 

“I’ll give you till Tuesday. Not a day more. Till 
then, we won’t see each other. Better sit at home where 
it’s quiet, and decide whether its blissful charms outweigh 
my offer. Now, where do you want to go ?” 

But Jessica didn’t want to go anywhere, except home, 
and she wanted to go alone, and insisted on parting at 
the restaurant door. This desire was quite genuine. 
Now it had come to the point, she was almost ready to 
draw back. 




176 


WHIRLWIND 


In after years, many a year after this little scene at the 
Ritz, Jessica cried in remorseful sorrow, “No woman ever 
really wants to go wrong.” Whether that be true, or whe¬ 
ther it was wrung from her own agony, who can tell? 

I think in the bottom of her heart she had quite decided 
what to say when Tuesday came. The fog, the dreariness, 
the monotony of her life, didn’t seem very alluring beside 
the gaiety and excitement of the life her lover offered. 
Yet there was a little regret tugging at her heart, and a 
tiny voice not yet utterly stifled. 

Perhaps Jessica thought it was only her epicurean de¬ 
sire to dally as long as possible with the goods the gods 
provided, that made her hesitate. Yet may we not hope 
that it was something better? May we not, perhaps for 
the last time, give her the benefit of the doubt ? But, alas 
for the tiny voice! Jessica thrills at the thought of her 
first kill. 

For in reality it was she that had done the hunting. 
From the moment they met, her beauty, her charm, her 
wit, all were spread to capture him. It was instinct. No 
blame attached to her, and besides, everybody did it. The 
difference between the majority and Jessica was, that 
while other people’s hunting gear was an every-day rig 
out, hers was of a most superior kind and warranted to 
kill at sight. 

When Lethbridge left the Ritz he was firmly con¬ 
vinced that he had played his cards to perfection. Foolish 
fellow! Jessica had known all along when to encourage 
and when to snub you. She had known within the quar¬ 
ter of an inch how far to go. Also, and quite as im¬ 
portant, she had known how far to let you go. You 
might be an expert, but in Jessica you had met a genius. 


WHIRLWIND 


}77 

When you sat down to luncheon, had you the slightest 
intention of doubling your offer ? 

Extra drink or so? Who proposed them? 

Once upon a time there was a man, and once upon a 
time there was a woman, and at the same period of his¬ 
tory, there appears to have been just one, and only one, 
apple tree-. 

“But that is quite another story.” 

“I quite agree, Reader. But-” 

“There was also a serpent,” you murmur. 

“Please forbear to drag red herrings across my path. 
I say there was one special and exclusive apple tree. And 
if Eve adventured first, she never rested till Adam fol¬ 
lowed after. And what would you have thought of him 
had he refused? And suppose he had beaten his wife 
and called her a fool for her pains ? Wouldn’t you write 
him down an ass and a prig of an ass at that?” 

* * * * * 

When Desmond returned home that evening he found 
Jessica sitting by the fire, her hands folded on her lap, 
her little smile upon her lips. 

“Lazy! What about that mending?” 

“Dear! Your things are too far gone. You must 
really get some new.” 

Oh, Jessica! What an inspiration! You are a shock¬ 
ing bad lot. But all the same there is something about 
you I can’t help liking. 



XVI 


It will be remembered that Jessica had decided to go 
home and to go alone. This sounds innocent and coy, 
but I fear Jessica’s walk home that afternoon was not 
of the kind the poet has told us is so maidenly. It was 
not a pleasant walk. Whatever the artistic results of Lon¬ 
don fogs, and artists of high repute tell us they are great, 
they do not raise the spirits of those who walk in them. 

People had taken to furs and thick overcoats again. 
Winter had returned suddenly, it was altogether a most 
dis-spiriting, uninspiring afternoon, and Jessica believed 
that Basil’s yacht was reported to be most exquisitely 
fitted up. 

And as she drew near home and noticed, as who could 
help doing, the squalor and meanness of Battersea, it was 
really very curious how quite remarkably well fitted up 
Jessica came to the conclusion Basil’s yacht must be. 

It was said in the last, and highly interesting chapter 
that she had done all the hunting. She had wanted a little 
amusement and had found the developments rather ex¬ 
citing. Oh, excitement, excitement! What sins can be 
laid at your door! It is a desire to know once more the 
old clamorous life of the flesh the lust to be possessed; 
the old heat of the blood once more rampant and roaring 
and mocking the little bolts and stays convention would 
set up. Pagan ? But who is not a pagan at heart ? And 
our modest Jessica was very pagan in spite of her birth 

178 


WHIRLWIND 


179 


and upbringing, or possibly, somewhat because of them. 
Yet she looked a perfectly respectable young woman as 
she walked along the streets. In what did she differ 
from that charming little lady who looked up quickly 
in Jessica’s face as they passed one another just now? 
Yet exactly the same old barbarous spirit was in both 
only in one it took the form of a longing for self-indul¬ 
gence, and in the other an utter disregard of how any 
animal suffered provided she had her ospreys, and seal¬ 
skins and her hunting and shooting. 

Now Jessica had once made a little plan. The most 
innocent of little plans! Indeed, it was more like a game 
for children. The most censorious could find no harm 
in it. And this was dear little Jessica’s dear little plan. 
It was, if ever she suddenly became rich, to take a long, 
polite, and formal farewell to poverty. Were she certain 
a perfectly appointed home and well-drilled, efficient, 
servants attended her, that her wardrobes were full of 
beautiful clothes, that an exquisite dinner with the best of 
silver and table linen and all that goes to make the dif¬ 
ference between dining and feeding awaited her, this is 
what she had decided to do. 

For one week she would abstain from taking posses¬ 
sion. She would wear her oldest clothes and even go 
without a bath every day. She would eat cheap food at 
cheap restaurants, and during the most crowded hour 
when noise was rampant, and the service more than 
usually execrable. She would travel by tube and ’bus 
when they were super full, and she would have one room 
in a horrid street, having stipulated that the house con¬ 
tained at least one teething baby. She would carry her 
own parcels home. She would arrive there hot and 
dusty, long for a cup of tea and be given frightened 


i8o 


WHIRLWIND 


water in a chipped cup. She would sleep in a lumpy bed, 
and be kept awake by the baby and its quarrelling parents. 
In fact, there was no end to the sordid and cruel ugliness 
she would not revel in. And all the time she would purr 
to herself, “This need not be. I could end it now. Wait¬ 
ing for me is a lovely house, flowers, jewels, cars, a box 
at the Opera, Paris frocks, all the resources that modern 
civilisation provides.” 

But, at the end of the week, what a transformation! 
Cinderella’s was not half so fine. Her’s was too sudden, 
too flamboyant, melodramatic. Jessica always thought 
the Fairy Godmother lacking in a sense of high-brow 
drama. 

She herself would spend the hot day, for, of course, 
it would be hot, in peregrinating streets filled by hawkers 
and their barrows, and where yells and shouts abounded. 
She would grow tired and sticky, and she would eat 
where, and what, no respectable person would on a hot 
day. 

Possibly she would get more sensation out of a day of 
drizzling rain. But, heat or cold, towards the end of the 
afternoon, that hour when hawkers and their customers 
would be most at variance, the baby teething its loudest, 
and life unutterably loathsome, oh, then would Jessica 
retire to her room and open a box containing clothes of 
wonder! But first she would undo certain parcels from 
whence would appear soap, of a rarity! A little perfume, 
a little powder, bath salts, certainly, and many other 
things, all of the most perfect! 

And when all was ready and nothing forgotten, Jessica 
would gaze at the whole and, behold! It would be very 
good. 

After many ringings of the cracked bell, at length, 


WHIRLWIND 


181 


would appear, like an apparition from a coal mine, the 
poor little genie of the kitchen, all smuts and snuffle, to 
know what “the lidy” wanted. 

Jessica would then inform her that, with the exception 
of the things on the bed, everything she had belonged to 
the genie, with certain largesse beside, if she could but 
be persuaded to bring sufficient really hot water to make 
a bath. 

The genie would not believe a word she had heard and 
emphatically decline the responsibility of providing a bath 
“it not being Saturday.” After much cajoling, and, per¬ 
haps, a visit from the landlady to find out “worts the 
matter,” a large tin basin and hot water would appear. 
Into these Jessica would throw her salts and soaps and 
et ceteras, and then proceed to wash herself very carefully 
all over. 

It cannot be said she would have a bath, but she would 
certainly clean herself thoroughly, and for this once the 
effect would do. She would then dry herself with perfect 
towels, out of one of the parcels, and slowly and luxur¬ 
iously dress herself. (I had forgotten to mention she 
would shampoo her hair and have a most excellent 
manicure, but these things are a matter of course.) 

When all was done she would pay her bill, tip the genie, 
sweep a profound curtsey to the room, descend the stairs, 
being careful not to touch the railing or the wall, and 
then enter a taxi that should take her to Rumpelmeyers 
for tea. But an ice, or cup of coffee, would be enough. 
Rumpelmeyers would be a good place for her car to call 
and whirl her away to the perfect house, warm with fires, 
sweet with flowers, rare china, costly furniture, where 
orderly servants would instantly bring her tea exquisitely 
served with thin bread and butter and succulent cakes. 


182 


WHIRLWIND 


Oh! the sudden delight of that easy chair and the clear 
bright fire and the perfection of a beautiful home! 

But what the little genie did with the salts and manicure 
set Jessica never troubled to think. She was always gen¬ 
erous with what she didn’t want. But I imagine the 
scent was used up in one colossal splash, while I am 
sure that Jessica’s old clothes are being worn by that poor 
little slattern at the present hour. And never does she 
put them on without a kindly thought of “the lidy who 
seemed to be the very incarnation of one of the heroines 
in the Heartache Series of novelettes. As to the land¬ 
lady, when she saw that magnificently arrayed figure of 
Jessica coming down her stairs, what should she think but 
that her opulent-looking lodger had been “ruined.” That 
night at the Pictures, she watched the alluring progress 
of a “vampire,” and, nodding her head sagely, murmured 
“’Er to the spit!” and “’er” Jessica remained in the lady’s 
memory ever after. 

Such was the harmless little comedy Jessica had 
planned. She recalled the details as she crossed and 
went down St. James Street. The end had come rather 
more suddenly than she had planned, and for that she was 
sorry. She had hoped to play a little longer. The “cat 
and mouse” game is an amusing pastime—for the cat! 

But she knew her hour had struck, yet, for some in¬ 
scrutable, indefinite reason was loath to count the strokes. 
What must be will be. Why bother? 

She examined one or two of the shop windows and even 
went a little way down King Street. There was a jewel¬ 
ler’s shop in that quarter where jade was most temptingly 
arrayed on soft grey velvet, in a manner to madden the 
lover thereof, who lacked the wherewithal to buy. Quite 
recently she had stood and gazed therein and seethed 


WHIRLWIND 


183 


inwardly that so much more existed between herself and 
its contents than the plate glass and iron bars the jeweller 
had set up. Now she had but to instruct Basil what to 
buy and it would be hers. 

Rapidly she built up a vision of herself in soft grey 
velvet, or perhaps ivory white—on second thoughts why 
not both?—perfectly cut and perfectly plain, as a back¬ 
ground to jade earrings, necklace and ring. Should there 
be a touch of the green in the hair? Eventually Jessica 
decided for a coronet of jade. It would be more original. 
Yes, she would have a grey frock, and a coronet of jade. 
Of course, in that case, she would wear no other jewels, 
not even one jade ring. Bear arms and neck and the jade 
coronet alone! 

From King Street she turned towards Jermyn Street. 
There was no occasion to hurry home and window-gaz¬ 
ing had developed a fresh interest. “What sybarites men 
are ! Who are the men who wear these things?” she won¬ 
dered as she gazed into a well known hosier’s. 

It was a gorgeous brocade of various rich colours, and 
it lay heaped up in the middle of the window, close by a 
wonderful silk tissue of every colour, with threads of 
gold and silver running through. This, too, was heaped 
up and showed gold, or many colours, or black and gold 
as the folds caught the light. 

But Jessica did not linger very long at the haberdasher’s. 
So soon as she had decided that an opera cloak of the 
brocade, lined with the tissue, and trimmed with ermine, 
might be worn occasionally, she passed on into Piccadilly 
and Bond Street, going up one side of the latter street 
with intent to return down the other. This was quite a 
pleasant sensation. In all the luxury about she now had a 
share. To-morrow she covtld have a car as good as any 


WHIRLWIND 


184 

she saw. She need no longer envy Mr. Tom her electric 
coupe, or Laura her excellent Lanchester. 

“Funny, those two women should cross my mind now. 

I wonder what they are doing, and what they’ll say, if 

1 S° ? ” 

She liked to keep up the fiction of an “if,” but it was 
dying rapidly. She knew quite well she would go to 
Paris and to the South where the yacht lay. She had a 
little twinge of conscience at the thought of Cousin Hugh. 

I think she bade a mental good-bye to him with some¬ 
thing like regret, and I know she was always sorry she had 
caused him pain. But what will you? What must be will 

be! 

Meanwhile she walked in poverty, and, like the virtuous 
children in story books, she envied no one. 

Then she thought of her husband—her husband—how 
funny the words sounded now. Much stranger than 
when she spoke them first on her wedding day. She had 
married him as a means of getting away from home- 
now she was going to get away from him. Dimly she 
wondered if her whole life would be spent periodically 
“getting away” from one home to another, each in turn to 
prove a failure. 

She tried to analyse her feelings for Desmond. On 
the whole she liked him, but felt no closer tie than for a 
pleasant companion who had once taken her down to 
dinner. The place thereof would know him no more. 
That was all. 

This came as a little bit of a shock to Jessica. Could 
it be she was heartless ? Was she incapable of feeling this 
thing called love that a woman was expected to feel for 
her husband as a matter of course ? 

Was she nothing but an adventuress? She recalled 


WHIRLWIND 185 

how she had gazed into all the shop windows, and the 
extravagant purchases she had pretended to make. 

“But an adventuress would want all the diamonds 
sparkling at her from the windows, and I only proposed 
a jade coronet.” 

Besides, she much preferred pearls. She had seen a 
few earlier in the day she had thought “would do.” She 
would have diamonds, of course, but, thinking of the 
rows on rows of rings, tiaras and necklaces, Jessica had 
decided the settings were vulgar and she would wait till 
she got to Paris, where jewellery was really understood. 

“I am not an adventuress, but I love adventure, and 
a soft, warm, comfortable life.” 

And she fell to dreaming and forgot to play her part 
in the comedy. It was her cue at that moment to be 
noticing barrows and evading decayed vegetables. She 
should have been overloaded with parcels and returning 
to that lodging where dwelt the teething infant. But her 
thoughts had wandered to an advertisement she had 
seen in a Tourist Agent’s window, illustrating the beauties 
of winter in Algeria. It was vilely coloured, and every¬ 
thing that could be connected with Africa had been 
centred in that one spot. But it conjured up visions 
of real sunshine, of bright, glittering seas, of picturesque, 
novel surroundings, of a careless, free, untrammelled 
existence in beautiful sunny places. And Jessica forgot 
the foggy, drizzling weather, but remembered that Basil 
had said his yacht was in the South, and she believed it 
was quite luxuriously fitted up. 

“I am not an adventuress,” she repeated, “but I love 
change, and there’s an excitement in wondering how 
things will pan out, If we’ve each a destiny, why not let 
destiny lead ?” 


i86 


WHIRLWIND 


And she wandered on homewards till she found her¬ 
self, sooner than she had expected, standing, latchkey in 
hand, before her own front door. 

Then she took a look up at the house; then up and 
down the street. She did not recollect ever doing that 
before. She supposed she had hated it too much and 
had, therefore, avoided any study in detail. Heavens! 
What a place it was! It really had no single redeeming 
point, and she had lived there—how long? 

Then she put the key in the latch and let herself in, 
took off her hat, gave the fire a poke, and sitting before 
it let her thoughts run on. 

“I don’t feel anything of yesterday about me. I seem 
to be in a room I knew a very long time ago and had 
almost forgotten. Even Desmond is beginning to be 
only a memory. When he comes in by and by he will be 
like someone risen from a dead world. Yes, I’m another 
girl to the Jessica of yesterday, even of this morning! 
I feel excited, and rather elated, but quiet and content, 
and above all, absolutely sure the right thing, the one 
and only inevitable thing, is going to happen.” 

And in that mood Desmond found her when he came 
home, and made the remark at the end of the last chapter. 

You will perceive Jessica had only thought how the 
coming change might affect her material surroundings. 
It had not entered her head to picture what life might 
be as the mistress of a man like Basil Lethbridge. 

But it did occur to her when Desmond, tired with his 
weariful day, proposed going to bed early. And, when a 
little later, they were lying side by side, Jessica thought 
again, and her thoughts were far too exciting to allow her 
to sleep all at once. 

She suddenly realised that in a few nights it would be 


WHIRLWIND 


187 


Basil who would expect to sleep with her; Basil’s kisses 
would be on her lips; his arms round her body; his hands 
fondling her; his limbs against hers. That was some¬ 
thing she had not fully grasped! How would she like 
that? And she lay perfectly still, gazing into the dark 
room, as still as the sleeping man at her side. But she 
could hear his breathing; could almost see the outline of 
his body under the bed clothes, and that dark place on 
the pillow was his head, she supposed. Lightly, her hand 
passed over it. His hair was soft and fair and, she 
remembered, slightly wavy. Basil’s was quite different. 
He was very dark, and his hair was quite straight, brushed 
off his forehead. She tried to imagine how she would 
feel were he there at that moment in Desmond’s place. 
The strange body of a man next hers in the night. He 
was surely stronger than Desmond. Yes! Surely very 
much stronger. 

And she wondered how he would treat her when she 
was once in his power. 

And all the while Desmond’s deep, regular breathing, 
soft and regular, seemed like the ticking of a very quiet 
clock telling the seconds as they slipped away. 

Jessica stretched her whole body. She was quivering; 
something like quicksilver seemed running through her, 
for Basil was very strong, and she adored strength. 
How would he express himself once he was her lover? 
It would be very interesting to see, very exciting, too! 

Then she remembered she was still Desmond’s wife, 
still in the untidy little house in the untidy little street. 
And Jessica stretched herself again; but this time slowly 
and luxuriously, happily. She rather enjoyed the sensa¬ 
tion of being still where she was. It was another scene 
out of the little comedy. The finale would be as rehearsed, 


i88 WHIRLWIND 

and the result also. And it was the result that really 
interested her. 

And yet, even now, she would not avow her intention 
of leaving Desmond. She lied to herself, as a good many 
people of blameless repute can and surely do. Well, that 
would teach her how to deceive others. 

Then she wondered if, after all, she wanted Basil’s 
love. 

Suddenly she turned and caught her pillow in her arms, 
buried her face in it; bit it, viciously, while she lay 
quivering, and again she seemed alive like quicksilver, 
shaking, twisting, wriggling. Then quickly she put the 
pillow back behind her head and lay, shivering. 

“Good heavens! What is it? What do I want after 
all? Something besides gewgaws, and beautiful things, 
and a soft and gay life! It’s a man’s passion! Strength 
greater than mine! A personality harder, more master¬ 
ful!” And for the moment she almost hated the man 
who slept so quietly at her side. 

Then a moment later she felt no sensation at all. Only 
rather weary and as though nothing mattered. Why 
should she hate Desmond? He and his life with her 
were nearly done. 

“It is very simple after all,” she wound up, “very 
simple indeed—very, very simple—very, very, indeed— 
simple, indeed.” 

And with this satisfying conclusion she dropped off 
sound asleep, and was soon breathing as quietly as the 
man whom she still called husband. Dear little Jessica! 
Sweet little Jessica! After such a day, who would deny 
you some repose! 


XVII 


By this time you are probably as weary of Battersea as 
is our somewhat hectic leading lady. Battersea has 
neither the faded charm of Bloomsbury, nor the out-at- 
elbows good humour of Chelsea. It is, in short, just 
Battersea, and when that is said, all is said. 

Patience awhile and we will be off too, and visit scenes 
of splendour, remote from Battersea, and wherein nothing 
cheap doth intrude, along of Mrs. Desmond, who we 
know perfectly well has already begun to pack. 

And, when she went, dear Mrs. Desmond did so with 
no compunction whatever. She might have been going to 
pay a call, or to spend an afternoon making music with 
Cousin Hugh, so utterly unmoved was she! 

Of course any right-minded young person would have 
had at least one twinge of conscience. But what can one 
say for a lady who not only never hesitated a moment 
when the time came, but felt a very intense and profound 
relief when it did? 

She had her breakfast in bed that morning: this had 
become a habit with her; and Desmond brought it to her 
on a tray. That had become a habit with him. 

As usual she thanked him prettily, and so entirely com¬ 
posed was she, so much her every-day self, that before she 
knew what she was about, she had put her arms round 
his neck and had begged him “not to be late for tea.” 

And then she remembered that she was going to run 
189 


WHIRLWIND 


190 

away and wouldn’t be home for tea, neither that day nor 
any other day. 

“Good heavens!” thought she. “What have I said?” 
And she was really very sorry and hoped Desmond 
wouldn’t think afterwards she’d been a hypocrite. 

When he left the house, she rose as usual and after 
breakfast had a long discussion with Mrs. Fletcher con¬ 
cerning that night’s supper. 

“No. I shall not be at home to-night,” said this miracle 
of composure, and never a hair turned as she spoke. “But 
I want Mr. Antrobus to have something nicer than usual. 
What can you suggest?” 

Mrs. Fletcher, when called upon for something “really 
nice” could never soar above pork chops. They were the 
stars in a firmament of food, to which she would hitch 
the wagon of her imagination. 

Well, pork chops may foe excellent things, but hardly 
the food to tempt a man whose wife has just eloped. 
Eventually Jessica thought out quite a decent little meal 
and made Mrs. Fletcher wonder at the interest she took. 

Afterwards, Jessica feared she had been a little extrav¬ 
agant. However, she quite sincerely hoped that Des¬ 
mond would like it, while she joyed at the thought that 
her partakings of similar diet were done for ever. 

She was glad to find herself not quite without heart. 
She had begun to fear she must be. It was the last thing 
she could do for him and she had done it with the solemn 
mien of one who carries out the last wishes of the dead. 

And dead to her Desmond was. It was a terrible state 
of mind, and she knew it, but whip up her sluggish con¬ 
science as she might it gave no response. Perhaps the 
poor thing had fallen down dead in sheer horror at be¬ 
longing to such a dreadful person, 


WHIRLWIND 


191 

Lastly, she took another look through her wardrobe. 
She had bought a few new things these latter days, but 
those had been sent to Basil’s rooms where she would 
call for them. These “few odds and ends” (“to go on 
with till I reach Paris”) had been carefully chosen and 
came from those secretive places far too famous and too 
expensive to advertise. Basil paid the bills, and smiled 
when he paid. 

When she came to examine, nothing seemed worth 
while taking away, but she made a thorough inspection 
before deciding. Like Mrs. Gilpin, though she was on 
pleasure bent, she had a frugal mind. 

For a moment she thought to pack her wedding dress. 
The shawls were extremely good, and would never be 
out of date. But it showed signs of wear and Jessica con¬ 
sidered she didn’t want it any more. 

So, in the end, she left the house with only what she 
stood up in. But first she gave a last look round the bed¬ 
room. 

“Horrible!” was all she said. 

Then she went downstairs and, putting her head in at 
the sitting-room, looked at that. 

Then she nodded to the furniture, and the fireplace, 
noticed one or two deficiencies she didn’t remember notic¬ 
ing before, and then let herself out of the house, and, 
without once looking back, made her way to the Carlton, 
where Basil was waiting to give her luncheon. 

And that was the last time Jessica ever saw Battersea, 
except on those occasions when she passed between Vic¬ 
toria and Dover. At those times she was wont to pull 
down the blinds. She thought it looked so sordid. 

So she went, wherever her destiny might lead. She 
had heard the call and had obeyed. For good or ill she 


WHIRLWIND 


192 

had taken the road she was bound to take sooner or later. 
Frightfully romantic, wasnt it? 

* * * * * 

That night as she and Basil were whirled through 
Battersea in the boat express, Jessica persuaded herself 
that she could see Mrs. Fletcher’s chimney as the train 
rushed past. 

“Just over there!” she cried; Tm sure that must be 
the street.” 

And so for the present, Jessica, au revoir! 

* * * * * 

When Desmond came home and found his wife still 
out, he only wondered why, if she were not returning 
herself, she had so urged that he should not be late for 
tea, that morning. He thought he need not have hurried 
so desperately after all. 

In due course dinner appeared, but, as we know, Jessica 
did not. And then Desmond grew a little anxious. And 
then Sarah told him Mrs. Antrobus had said she would 
be out for dinner. And then Desmond wondered why 
she had vouchsafed no word of explanation. He looked 
round the room and even went upstairs to see if she had 
left a note on her pin-cushion. But he found nothing, 
and dinner was getting cold. He had had no proper 
luncheon and it was useless worrying, so he sat down and 
ate his dinner. 

He rather enjoyed his dinner. It was not till after the 
meal that Jessica’s explanation arrived. It came in a 
note sent by special messenger from the Carlton. Its 
arrival was beautifully timed. Jessica was always con¬ 
siderate when it cost her nothing. 


WHIRLWIND 


193 


She had had the grace to be brief, but the note said all 
that was necessary. When you consider, what could she 
say beyond the truth? And if Jessica did possess any 
virtue at all, it was her honesty. Unfortunately the 
occasions when truth was possible had always been so 
few in her experience. However, she was quite truthful 
in her letter to Desmond, and told him she had gone away 
and wasn’t coming back any more. She admitted her 
failure as the wife of a poor man, that her conduct must 
appear heartless, hut she feared she had no heart, and 
she hoped whatever pain he might feel at first, he would 
come to see one day that she had acted in both their 
interests. It was quite a short note: but, as you see, it 
said everything that was necessary. 

And the first thing Desmond thought to do was to save 
Jessica’s reputation. Not for the world would he have 
Mrs. Fletcher discuss his wife. 

He rang the bell and told Sarah “that Mrs. Antrobus 
had been detained by a sick friend and would not be home 
that night.” 

But Mrs. Fletcher, to quote her own words when she 
recounted the tale later to eager friends, “jest tossed ’er 
’ead!” 

“Sick friend! Mark my words, I sez to Sarah, I sez 
she’s gorn !! And gorn she was. I said as she’d never 
come to no good, leavin’ an ’ome as a queen might live 
in” (thus did Mrs. Fletcher regard her front parlour), 
“but I sez to Sarah, I sez, she’s gorn !” 

Desmond, partly to keep up the fiction that nothing 
was wrong, and partly to focus his thoughts the better, 
spent the evening pretending to read a book. 

And ever his thoughts went round and round in a circle. 
By the time her letter had reached him, she was out of 


194 


WHIRLWIND 


England and beyond recall. There was the insult, and 
the outrage to pride and love. But worse than the crum¬ 
bling to earth of all his hopes, far worse was the death 
blow she had dealt to all those ideals he had cherished of 
her. And this hurt him beyond the power to tell of it. 

As he sat, at first stunned, trying to get some order out 
of chaos, a royal rage against the woman who had done 
this outrageous thing came and swept him as a hurricane 
sweeps the desert. He was furiously, madly, angry. On 
what had he been expending all this love of his? On a 
creature who had left him, not because of passionate 
love, but for the soft, pleasant things her husband could 
not give her. 

Was this the Jessica he had loved? 

Little things came back to him, little incidents. He 
remembered their quarrel in that very room after they 
returned from the Savoy only a few nights before. 

“She must have been planning it even then.” 

There was no pretence at keeping up appearances now. 
No pretending to read. He felt no desire to call her back. 
He had loved her with the love of the eyes. The love of 
a boy for a woman. 

“What a boy I was!” he cried, and in those words lay 
the root of the matter. He had loved as a boy, had put 

a halo round her as boys do to the women they love-. 

Well! She herself had torn off her halo and now she 
stood before him as she was, just a wonderful piece of 
flesh and blood, but without heart: cold, callous, and cal¬ 
culating. 

“She couldn’t wait. She knew what to expect when 
she married me!” And then he suddenly wondered 
would this have happened had he done as she had so often 
begged ? 



WHIRLWIND 


195 


Well, luxury-loving souls cannot wait. They expect 
everything to fall into their laps at once. And strangely 
enough it usually does. Not theirs to climb the tree 
laboriously, and pluck the fruit carefully. They look for 
others to climb trees and throw fruit into their out¬ 
stretched hands. 

The Cleopatras, the Ninons, the Barbara Villiers, are 
not for the ordinary, civilised man. They are the throw¬ 
backs to days when passion was not a crime but beauty 
was enthroned. They make their own laws; neither are 
they, nor ever can they be, merely the property of their 
subjects. They are absolute and not constitutional mon¬ 
arch^. 

It was life Jessica wanted. Beauty of dress, dainty 
food, the best to be had of music, painting, sculpture: the 
power to travel, and to travel at her greatest ease, the 
opportunity to visit famous cities, and view great scenery, 
these things meant life to her. 

She was never meant for such as Desmond. Nor, per¬ 
haps, is her kind meant for any one man. So much they 
demand, so much is absolutely needful to them, just as 
space and air are necessary for the eagle’s flight. 

But all this, Desmond could not feel at such a moment. 
He had loved with his eyes and worshipped with his 
heart. A youth’s love! And now he suddenly seemed a 
middle-aged man, and mind and judgment stood up, ar¬ 
raigned, condemned, while his love lay bruised and bleed¬ 
ing, and his heart wept of anguish. 

And a cry went up within him of indignation, that his 
pride, his honour, his love, and faith in a woman’s hon¬ 
esty should be so remorselessly trampled in the dust. 


WHIRLWIND 


196 

But he found before long that the world was not 
merely filled with Lethbridges and Jessicas. 

His godfather came forward at once, and insisted on 
Desmond making his home in Hans Place. Aunt Elinor 
was tact itself. And little Mrs. Tom (after a long confab 
with Laura Hobbs, wherein the two ladies heaped all 
manner of abuse on the runaway’s head) showed Des¬ 
mond the truest kindness, and, after the most charming 
of little notes, left the boy alone. 

But she didn’t leave the subject alone. None of the 
dear women left it. Oh, dear no! They put it in their 
pockets by day and under their pillows by night, and 
devoured it till nothing was left. Then they made an- 
other like unto it and started all over again. 

Said Mrs. Tom to Laura Hobbs: “I said from the first 
there was something not quite, you know! 

Laura knew exactly and nodded acquiescence. Quoth 
Laura Hobbs: “Bad style, Maud. Handsome, of course, 
but bad style!” 

Maud didn’t quite agree. She had always acknowl¬ 
edged Jessica’s beauty, if she did find it convenient to for¬ 
get that the “something” she had noticed in Jessica on 
their first meeting was not exactly the same “something” 
she meant to imply at the present moment. 

“I .think she was handsome,” drawled Mrs. Tom. 

“I always admitted her good looks,” replied Laura. 
“That’s why it seemed such a pity she should touch up 
her hair.” 

“Oh, do you think . . .?” 

“My dear Maud! That copper tint, oh, very effective 1 
Too effective to be real.” 

“It generally goes with that white skin.” 

“Both are probably sold together. I hear her extrava- 


WHIRLWIND 


197 


gance knew no bounds. They tell me he’s snowed under 
with bills.” 

Now that was an unnecessary sin to lay at Jessica’s 
door. She really had been very good about spending 
money. Indeed, one of the reasons she had gone was in 
order to have more to spend. 

And so she was discussed and pulled to pieces, till, 
poor girl, she had no more looks left than she had repu¬ 
tation, alas! If her portrait had been painted as these 
gentle ladies described it, I am certain no one would 
possibly have recognised it for Jessica, except themselves. 

Then they fell to talking of Desmond; and “pitied 
him,” and were “fearfully sorry.” But they had to be 
truthful and say “he never understood her.” And some 
of them began in their hearts to look down a little on the 
poor boy, and to hold him for something a little cheap 
since his wife had run away, a thing that after all they 
were, secretly, rather proud one of their sex had had the 
pluck to do. 

The men consoled in the usual men’s way. That is, 
they said nothing at all, but went somewhat out of their 
way to be cordial. They asked him a good deal to their 
houses, and offered him a day’s hunting or shooting. In 
fact, Desmond found himself on his old footing and being 
treated as he had never been since his marriage. 

Yet amidst all this sympathy and consideration, Des¬ 
mond felt himself to be quite dreadfully lonely. There 
was only one man he could have confided in fully, and 
that was Fell. But, as we know, Fell was far away. 

And Desmond rather longed for that quiet, sympathe¬ 
tic comrade; but all he could do was to write a long letter, 
explaining what had happened and, manlike, ask Fell not 
“to bother to answer.” And when Fell read the letter, 


igS 


WHIRLWIND 


amidst the ruins of a prehistoric city in China, the already 
confirmed bachelor was more settled in his convictions 

than ever. , 

There were, also, letters from the fallen away one s 
family. The horror, the shock of the scandal to them 
can be well imagined. Jessica’s name was never men¬ 
tioned by any of them. If obliged to refer to her they 
would do so as “that woman.” They were kind people 
and meant well, and it was not their fault if they were 
rather dowdy. At least they endeavoured to do their duty 
as they conceived it. 

Desmond was touched by their letters and never forgot 
their kindness. There came also a heart-broken letter 
from the vicarage and over that Desmond and his cousin 
had a consultation. 

“I’ve had a letter from Jessica’s father,” said the 
younger man. “I’d like you to read it,” and he handed 
it over to his elder. It was indeed a pitiful letter. The 
letter of an honest man who felt bowed to the earth with 
shame. He implored Desmond not to divorce his child 
but to forgive “till seventy times seven.” This was bad 
advice and Desmond was all for giving Jessica her free¬ 
dom and thus enabling her to marry and start afresh. 

But she herself didn’t care. She wrote from Paris 
saying: “I am quite aware my conduct must appear un¬ 
pardonable. But I can’t help it. I’ve tried to feel sorry, 
but I can’t. I’ve been honest in my way and I’m glad of 
that. As to divorce, it makes little difference to me 
whether you do or don’t. I can never have social posi¬ 
tion and don’t want it.” 

A perfectly correct, very succinct and quite shameless 
statement of the truth. 

Again from the vicarage came an earnest appeal. 


WHIRLWIND 


199 


'‘Those whom God hath joined.” “Jessica will surely 
repent. Let her know she yet has an anchor left, that 
there is somewhere she may return.” And with many 
quotations from scripture, and in language made eloquent 
with grief, the old man persuaded Desmond not to pro¬ 
ceed with the divorce. 

But Desmond made it understood that if Jessica did 
repent she must never appeal to him. Towchester might 
be open to her, and to her father she could go, but never 
would he take her back himself. So you see how severe 
the blow was to him. 

* * * * * 

“I want some work, Cousin Hugh,” he said one day. 
“I want to go into the firm.” 

“That’s good hearing.” 

“I want money and position. And when I’ve got all 
this I mean to go to her and say: ‘There you are! What 
do you think of me now?’ ” 

“You speak rather bitterly.” 

“Well, I feel rather that way. Shall for a good bit, I 
expect. But you see I’ve learnt such a lot lately. I seem 
to have grown up quite suddenly.” 

“And your literary work?” 

Desmond hesitated a moment before answering. 

“That seems to have gone. The desire to write, I 
mean. Tve been thinking lately if I’d not stuck to it so 
obstinately, if I’d done as she asked, things might have 
turned out differently. The fault is a good deal mine.” 

“But she knew what sort of life you intended to lead 
when she married you. Even had you agreed to her 
wishes, you would only have done so with half your heart. 


200 


WHIRLWIND 


Your mind would have been elsewhere, you would always 

have fancied that perhaps. ... 

Cousin Hugh hardly knew how to finish. Desmond 

did it for him. 

. . I’d missed my real vocation? I wonder! I 
want to make thousands and thousands. I want to prove 
to every one. . . . You, Tom, Frank, all the lot, that 
I’m not merely to be pitied. I’m sick of pity. 

And so it came about that Desmond took up the work 
for which he had real aptitude: something, indeed, of 


gcinu3. 

Then did that patient Penelope, she of the folded hands, 
rise with exceeding joy and take her darling to her heart 
and teach him till he began to astonish older heads with 
his quick decisions and the wisdom of his acts. Yes, 
Genius was with him now, lit his path so that he might 
see to run where others stumbled; gave him wisdom so 
that what appeared insuperable difficulties were to him 
but shadows of the prize ahead. 

His reputation grew. He became known beyond the 
limited family circle. Tom said: “Desmond would go 
far,” and Mrs. Tom, first incredulous then amazed, and 
finally awed, asked Desmond to her most exclusive little 
dinners. And when, in due time, Cousin Hugh passed on, 
and Desmond found himself possessed of the house in 
Hans Place and a considerably augmented income, she 
never murmured at the legacies left to her own children, 
but admitted “The two had lived so long together, ever 
since ‘that dreadful woman’ and goodness knows what’s 
become of her,” etc., etc. 

At Mrs. Tom’s, Desmond met Lord Ashurst, then in 
the Government. He persuaded Desmond to enter Parlia¬ 
ment, and, as we know, he did stand, and thus it was he 


WHIRLWIND 


201 


met Margaret Dalison. But this is looking ahead some¬ 
what. 

As the years went on, and success came to him, Des¬ 
mond gained confidence, and a charm of manner, lacking 
perhaps in earlier years. Very possibly his old struggles, 
the times when he had been shown the door none too 
kindly, taught him consideration, so that when it came 
to be his turn to indicate the way from his presence he 
always tried to do so in as gentle a manner as possible. 

Yet he was not one of those magnetic personalities the 
public reads about in the “Heartache Series” of novelettes, 
that draw all men and most things to them without an 
effort. 

Inch by inch he fought, stumbling often, nearly fall¬ 
ing sometimes. But inch by inch he won, till we find 
him honoured, courted, flattered and placed, where none 
had ever dreamed to see him, and far higher than any 
Antrobus had ever thought to attain. 

“No family he might not marry into,” said some of the 
now obsequious relations; “only you know there’s a sad 
story in the background.” 

But that story was very dim and hazy now. There 
was some idea that “Cousin Desmond had been crossed 
in love,” otherwise the old tragedy was well-nigh for¬ 
gotten until now, after all these years, it lifted up its head 
again and cried aloud. 

Yes, and cried insistently. And the more he got to 
know Margaret, the more her friendship began to mean, 
the more she (all unconsciously) was soothing and bind¬ 
ing up the remnants of what he had once called love, so 
more vehemently did that old sore cry aloud. 

And Jessica? 

“Good heavens! What about her?” 


202 


WHIRLWIND 


All Desmond could find to say as the thoughts of her 
crowded in his mind was simply this: 

“Dear me! I wonder what she looks like now ?” 

All the years there had been no word or sign from 
her. He had not the remotest idea how life had treated 
her. Whether she walked the streets a beggar, or reigned 
queen in some wealthy but Bohemian set. All the feeling 
for her he had was just a curiosity to know what she 
looked like now. 

He remembered her as something very lovely, but that 
was years ago and he wondered “what she looks like now.” 

* * * * * 

Yes, it is actually twenty-three years since Jessica 
whisked through Battersea and tried to identify Mrs. 
Fletcher’s chimney from the train. 

That good soul had long since gone to a land where 
“something ’ot” is said to be always ready, and Sarah 
had married the milkman and become clean. 

Would you care to hear something of Jessica’s career? 
Of how she fared while Desmond was winning fame and 
fortune ? 

Then let us go into the cinema (there is no need of a 
magic mirror these days) and take a glimpse at a few 
episodes, only, as we have seen the first part already, let 
us discuss the lady a little till we come to the parts we 
haven’t seen. 

I should be glad, somehow, if you could whisper that 
you don’t really think Jessica is a bad woman. I, myself, 
am far from putting all the blame on her. I think Des¬ 
mond was to blame also and, whatever he became after¬ 
wards, was inclined to be a bit of a prig during his mar- 


WHIRLWIND 


203 


ried life. Of course he was very young and didn’t under¬ 
stand her, but, after all. . . . 

“His relations might have been a bit kinder, and I 
can’t say hers were exactly stimulating.” 

I admit that. But if he had gone into business it 
would have been to please his wife, not himself. He 
would always have looked back with regret. Altogether 
it was one of those disasters so much easier for outsiders 
to judge. They know exactly what ought to have been 
done. Had they been in the others’ place of course all 
would have gone well. But this way we can argue till 
Doomsday. It did happen and there’s an end of it. 

And Jessica’s mistake was thinking money brought 
happiness. Most paupers hold the same error, and per¬ 
haps it does bring a certain imitation. Poverty naturally 
brings nothing. I have met jollity, but never happiness 
without a little cash. 


XVIII 


Whatever the end the sinner may come to eventually 
—and it is not always a bottomless pit—one cannot deny 
that the erring one often puts in a very good time before 
that end, desirable or undesirable, is reached. 

Now, as all things come to an end in this vale of tears, 
is it better to dance to the end “rose bloomed and violet 
crowned,” richly apparelled and gaily bedight, or sit in 
sackcloth and ashes? Surely happiness is the highest 
power of religion? 

So if that is the goal to which all creation is slowly 
evolving is it not well to bring some of that admirable 
quality into our lives now ? 

If you are really happy in sackcloth and ashes; if it is 
healing and uplifting to wail—most surely lamentation 
will be your lot till that time when some more Christian 
thought wakens within you. 

But should your idea of the greatest happiness be some¬ 
what parallel with that of Jessica’s, then such will be your 
Heaven until you realise there is something better. Now, 
between ourselves, of the two states of mind I infinitely 
prefer Jessica’s. 

I make no excuses, palliate nothing of her sins, or her 
heart-breaking misconception as to the real uses of life, 
yet she, I stoutly maintain, is floundering more surely in 
the direction of the land of glory, and holds a juster 


204 


WHIRLWIND 


205 

vision of creation’s goal, than the man declaring himself 
naught but a miserable sinner. 

She is out of her course. Her sense of beauty is per¬ 
verted. She is putting her life to wrong uses. But her 
heart sings songs of triumph. There are roses in her 
path, and the sky is high above and full of the songs of 
birds, and blue as a sapphire’s heart. 

Life, at the time we take up her story again had be¬ 
come like unto one of those clear, clean southern seas the 
water-babies wash thoroughly every night. A sea of 
opal lights, full of mysterious palaces and unknown ad¬ 
ventures. 

Strange men, strange women dwell there. Large eyed, 
straight haired and strong. Moving in rhythm, weaving 
spells that have no meaning for those who are not children 
of the sea. 

Dive through this enchanted sea. Take what first 
comes to hand. Rejoice in the strange and half savage 
things you find. And then up to the blue and warmth 
atop to a greater glory, a life more wonderful than all. 

Go on Jessica, there is only one way to salvation, one 
gate in the end, but many ways lead thereto. 

And we may as well acknowledge straight away that 
since Jessica commenced diving in the sea and experi¬ 
menting with the things she found there, she had become 
a much happier and more contented young person. 

* * * * * 

Evidently this is her bedroom. But what a bedroom! 

It is not very large and holds very little furniture, but 
what there is has been specially made for the room and 
even Jessica had felt a little ashamed when Lethbridge 


206 


WHIRLWIND 


showed her the bill. But how could she know it would 
cost so much? 

Certainly, she has realised her dream of a marble bath 
in a silver shrine. One catches a peep of the water temple 
through a high archway in the bedroom. And then what 
a sweet, innocent picture our Jessica makes, amidst a pile 
of pillows and on the softest of down. (Please note care¬ 
fully the quality of the linen, and what do you imagine is 
the value of the lace?) The little breast softly rises and 
falls, and the breath comes oh, how gently, as it feels its 
way tenderly through the slightly open lips, red and sweet 
are they, fragrant too, and pouting like a baby’s. 

Was there ever a vision of greater happiness or sweeter 
content ? 

But how dare she, sinner that she is, sleep calmly as an 
angel? Rather should she lie awake and weep bitter tears 
of regret for the innocence and discomforts of Battersea. 
Alas! our Jessica neither wakes, weeps or regrets. Why 
should she? 

She regards her world as Paradise. True, it grows 
a tree of knowledge. But the taste of the fruit is very 
sweet and, far from causing any indigestion, has opened 
up fresh vistas of delight. In short, this flagrant sinner 
is without an anxiety in the world. 

But is she so terrible a sinner ? What outrage has she 
committed offensive to her ideal ? 

That ideal may be totally wrong. Everything about 
her is wrong. To my mind, as well as yours, her whole 
life is an example of wilful naughtiness! But poor 
Jessica had no higher ideal to strive after. 

So let us call her “poor Jessica,” and not be the first 
to cast a stone. She is at least struggling to the light; 
and though it be a false beacon, it is the only one she 


WHIRLWIND 


207 


knows. Surely it is better to worship false Gods than to 
deny them all? Nor let us forget that Heaven is full of 
Saints, of the most undoubted sanctity and unassailable 
position, who have fought their way there out of greater 
wildernesses than the one so fascinating to Jessica. 

* * * * * 

Every morning brings a fresh sensation, a new realisa¬ 
tion of expensiveness, of quiet, studied order. It is still 
a novel sensation to hear no hurried Sarah clattering to 
and fro; no lodger stridently demanding his boots, or 
Mrs. Fletcher waking the house with raucous voice. 

“To be thorough is a great thing. Could I spend three 
times what I have, I should only triplicate the house. 
Nothing could be more perfect than it is. One might, of 
course, have a private orchestra, or better still, a string 
quartette. That is certainly an idea, I must think about 
it.” 

From which it is evident that Battersea and the untidy 
little house are left very far behind. She had decided to 
forget them once and for all, and had very definitely done 
so the instant she saw the last of them. 

On that occasion she had said: “I belong only to the 
present moment in which I live. None other has any 
claim upon me, neither the past nor the future.” 

And this, I imagine, to have been Jessica’s way of tak¬ 
ing no thought for the morrow—oh, certainly, she had 
entered upon the path of righteousness, if, like a crab, 
she walked somewhat sideways. 

Came a soft tap at the door, too low to wake a sleeper; 
sufficiently loud to catch the ear of one who only dozed. 

Enter a maid, all softness and smiles, with a tray of 


208 


WHIRLWIND 


rolls and exquisite chocolate, a maid dainty yet strong, 
the very person to wait in such a room; and forthwith 
flies any spectre of Sarah who might have been hanging 
around with a cold cup of pale brown tea. 

“What scent will Madame use to-day?” asked the suc¬ 
cessor of Sarah, as she put the rolls and chocolate by 
Jessica’s side. 

Jessica tried to stir herself, but could only think how 
pleasant it was to be roused to sip such chocolate, handle 
such china, and dilly with such brioches and butter. 

How different to those other wakenings in a room un¬ 
tidy with clothes, with obtrusive shoes, and all the para¬ 
phernalia, inseparable from a small room wherein two 
sleep and dress, and where there was barely room for 
one. 

“I will not remember those days. To remember ugly 
things brings ugliness to one.” 

And a very sound philosophy, too, Jessica. You speak 
wiser than you know. Progress is all in all. Far better 
plant new flowers than tend dead ones. Dig and manure 
your garden and wonderful things will grow there. 

“What scent will Madame use to-day?” 

Really, Sophie must be answered. 

“What did I use yesterday?” 

“Extract de Mille Fleurs, Madame.” 

“Then we won’t use it again just yet. Suggest some¬ 
thing.” 

Jessica remembered very well what she used yesterday, 
but she was too lazy to think; also it was good for 
Sophie to utilise her own brains. 

“Madame has not used the Mille et une nuits lately.” 

“That,” said Jessica, really roused to some show of 
interest. “Is not a scent for the morning.” 


WHIRLWIND 


209 


Sophie smiled approvingly. She was the very last thing 
in efficiency, and had even been able to teach the intuitive 
Jessica a thing or two. She had merely thrown out the 
suggestion in order, once more, to test her mistress. 
Sophie liked Jessica, she admired her beauty and her 
taste. “Madame may be cocotte, but she is Grande 
cocotte, she has an air, atmosphere.” 

“Would Madame like her own special perfume? That 
so wonderful invention of Monsieur Clement that he dis¬ 
tils for Madame’s sole use?” 

Yes! Think of it! 

Nowadays, if you please, we have our own scent that 
a famous chemist has thought out for us with much 
labour and travail of brain. A subtle, strange and indi¬ 
vidual scent; and sold only to ourselves and those to 
whom we give a gracious permission to buy. Oh, only 
the most exquisite and expensive things are admitted 
within Jessica’s chaste doors these days. 

Then she remembered that Basil had friends lunching. 
Racing men, an American millionaire, two or three 
women who would never have been admitted into the 
portals of the Antrobus family. 

“Let us be simple to-day, Sophie. Give me some of 
that Italian amber.” 

“But it is finished,” exclaimed Sophie, eloquently 
spreading her hands. “Madame surely remembers-” 

Jessica interrupted quickly. “Madame does not re¬ 
member; I told you always to see I was well supplied.” 

“Mais Madame, je suis desole - ” 

“Never mind your desolation,” Jessica recovered her 
good humour very speedily. “Write to Rome for some 
more at once. After all, I think we’ll use Clement’s 
mess!” 




210 


WHIRLWIND 


“Mais oui, Madame. C'est un perfum tres chic/' and 
a good many other distinctive qualities according to 
Sophie, who began bustling about with her preparations 
and her words could not be caught. 

And those preparations! First she went through the 
arch towards the bathroom, but paused in a small glass- 
panelled octagonal room that lay between. 

Sophie cordially approved this room as one could see 
oneself before and behind, at every angle, and without 
trouble. Sophie took a good look at the fifty odd reflec¬ 
tions of herself and saw how all was well. 

Then she opened a glass panel, and lo! a tiny room 
beyond lit up by electricity, automatically by the opening 
of the door. 

“Madame has decided on that so curious scent, this, 
therefore, is the peignoir for to-day,” thought the maid, 
and took a soft silk wrapper of many colours, so deeply 
woven, they glimmered or disappeared according to the 
wearer’s movements. 

Then Sophia went to another cupboard of innumerable 
shelves, and took spray, soap, salts and powder, all of 
the same special scent. 

The gown and spray she carried back to the bedroom, 
sprayed first the window curtains, then the room, and 
especially the bed till Jessica murmured, “Enough, Sophie. 
That will do.” 

Then the bath was prepared! That low, wide, deep 
basin, wherein the water always seemed of a special clean¬ 
liness. And by that time a curious, but not enervating 
smell, as of a thousand flowers, filled the little suite of 
rooms, and when Jessica at last rose and stepped into her 
bath that too was full of the same scent. 

Yes, I fear it was all vastly superior to anything Mrs. 


WHIRLWIND 


211 


Fletcher had to offer, and I cannot deny that Jessica en¬ 
joyed it hugely. 

The ritual, I can call it nothing less, of Jessica’s ablu¬ 
tions, was also far more ornate than her splashings of 
former days. How, though the tongue of men and of 
angels were mine could I bring before you her soft dalli¬ 
ance, till Sophie, accurately timing, warned her that five 
minutes were up. 

I simply can’t, not that I am shy, far from it. Perhaps 
if I take another glance. 

Jessica gets out of her bath, and, being quickly dried, 
lies on a padded marble slab, while Sophie rubs a soap 
powder into her skin, firmly, systematically, and thor¬ 
oughly. 

First the right foot, then up the leg to the body and, 
when that is done Sophie does the same by the left foot, 
up the leg also to the body. Then the body itself is mas¬ 
saged till the powder is rubbed in firmly, systematically, 
thoroughly. 

Then Jessica turns over and the same operation is re¬ 
peated over again, and when it is all finished she returns 
to the bath, this time for a cool shower that washes the 
soap all away leaving her body cool, soft and velvety, ex¬ 
quisitely elastic. 

That portion of the ritual done, there follows a sort of 
after service wherein Sophie fetches the unguents and a 
big powder puff, and when she is through with these, 
then, but not till then, like a rose from the night, a God¬ 
dess from her sleep, Jessica stands forth and turns unto 
the day. 

“A simple frock, Sophie. That new thing from 
Doucet’s. By the way dinner is early to-night. I am 
going to the Opera.” 


212 


WHIRLWIND 


“And the ball, Madame?” 

“I shall come home to dress after the opera.” 

Oh, yes! Jessica had her box at the opera, and was 
going to a costume ball at a famous sculptor’s. A mar¬ 
vellous costume had been specially designed for her. Paris 
ransacked for suitable gauds, but, on the whole, she opined 
the result would justify the trouble. She knows she will 
look lovely, she will meet all the world, fill his wife (?) 
with envy, and will go there in her new Rolls-Royce. 

An hour or so later she was entertaining a somewhat 
motley crowd at luncheon. The men, distinctly over¬ 
whelming in their obvious possession of wealth, were 
mostly of the jockey type, and would appear to be more 
at ease on the racecourse, though it must be con¬ 
fessed they seemed very much at home where they 
were. 

And our shy young mouse made a most admirable 
hostess. She had the right word for everybody, and 
chatted and laughed and kept the ball rolling, with all the 
charm and atmosphere of some great ambassadress at 
an Imperial Court. What did she care that she was a 
social outcast? In her opinion it was far better to reign 
Queen and rule in her own world than to be merely a 
lady of honour to some woman greater than herself. 

“I wonder if you will ever want to go back,” a woman 
had once said to her. “I mean back to your old world, 
our world!” 

Mrs. Annerley was considerably older than Jessica, 
and had much the same history. Jessica liked her, she 
was a woman of wide interests and the similarity of their 
careers had drawn them together. 

“I haven’t much to go back to,” Jessica had laughed. 
“My old friends wouldn’t know me now.” 


WHIRLWIND 


213 


“You may regret that later on,” the older woman 
replied. “You are so young yet. Wait till you reach 
my time of day and find yourself with nothing.” 

For a moment Jessica misunderstood and stared at 
Mrs. Annerley’s pearls, which alone were worth some¬ 
thing. 

“I didn’t mean financially,” the other smiled. “I meant 
without belongings. My day has long passed and I have 
very few friends. One is a little lonely sometimes with¬ 
out somebody to attach oneself to.” 

“It is not very pleasant to be entirely at the mercy of 
one man’s caprice. It’s hard enough to keep him when 
your only hold on him is your love, and it’s doubly 
difficult if your hold is only on his money.” 

“Yes I suppose it is. But Basil and I get on all right. 
He’s not jealous and I’m not bored.” 

“Take care, my dear, it’s never the other way about 
and he gets bored and you jealous.” 

Jessica merely shrugged her shoulders. 

“I suppose when a man gets bored the remedy is in his 
own hands. But if it is the woman a third is needed to 
unravel the skein.” 

Some of this talk came into her mind as she played 
hostess to that refined and distinguished circle. One of 
her guests was a pretty woman, but, alas! for her, peril¬ 
ously jealous, and the object of her jealousy was a 
young Irish girl, very fresh and lovely, still new to the 
set wherein she found herself. 

And the poor unhappy wretch was, in the eyes of all the 
other women, obviously boring her “husband” and con¬ 
tinually doing the wrong thing. May be she was feeling 
out-of-sorts, anyway, she was quite unable to play her 
part naturally. But “gay” she knew she had to be at any 


214 


WHIRLWIND 


price. And thus, she over-acted, and for the first time 
the man recognised his thraldom; and seeking freedom, 
turned for relief to simple and demure Eileen, who looked 
like a fairy out of a child’s story book. 

But that shy, gentle exterior hid a very grasping little 
mind, and the baby-like mouth, so soft and yielding now, 
could take a very decided and straight line if it chose, 
while the blue guileless eyes could glint like steel if the 
greedy little soul was angered. But this happened very 
seldom. Little Eileen knew the value of her child-like 
appearance and played up to it for all she was worth. 
She was unattached at present and was “chaperoned” 
by the only woman much over thirty at the table. A 
woman who had found that if she wished to keep in 
“the swim” it was increasingly necessary to accompany 
something young and beautiful. 

Any amount of tears of rage had been shed, before 
she had recognised this unpleasant fact. She had sat 
for hours in front of her glass trying one, and then 
another experiment to recall her vanishing looks; and 
finally, in a fit of ungovernable fury she had smashed 
the glass. But in the end she realised her day was done, 
and very sensibly retired from any active part in the 
play, contenting herself with teaching others how to act 
and merely claiming a percentage on the “salary” received. 

“I wonder if I shall ever come to that,” thought Jessica, 
who knew very well that Laura Spearmint had brought 
Eileen because a certain American millionaire had been 
expected. “It’s rather a low down game, and yet! if 
Basil had never turned up I might have been very glad 
of just such a friend.” 

Laura was speaking at that moment and her clear high 
voice rose above the others as she spoke words intended 


WHIRLWIND 


215 


for Eileen’s benefit, but which also came from the place 
where most people are supposed to have their hearts. 

“One should make the most of one’s day and not trust 
to luck for the next.” 

“Aren’t we told in the Bible to make hay while the 
sun shines?” asked Eileen in her soft little lisp. 

The American broke in here with a wise remark most 
applicable to the occasion. 

“The man who makes the most of the present will find 
his future takes care of itself,” said he. “That’s sound 
philosophy. For to-morrow is only the result of to-day. 
The man who looks after his business well to-day need 
have no fear that his business won’t look after him well 
to-morrow.” 

A little silence fell on the company. No one present 
cared for business, at least not in the American sense. 
Business might mean solid cash! Or it might mean 
diamonds, but most certainly it did not mean sitting in 
an office all day, thinking out schemes for money making. 
Fortunately, Lethbridge came to the rescue with some 
fersh information regarding the favourites for the Grand 
Prix and the conversation swerved round to lighter and 
more congenial matters. 


XIX 


That afternoon Jessica rested in her little all black 
“rest room,” as was her wont before any strenuous night. 
She lay half asleep, every nerve relaxed and with a band 
of black ribbon across her eyes, so they might show no 
sign of tiredness when she went forth to dazzle. 

And as she rested she dreamily followed her thoughts, 
taking up each in turn, playing with it, and then dropping 
it. 

Her life was exciting, and she would miss that if she 
and Lethbridge drifted apart and no one turned up to 
take his place. But there was no fear of that. She had 
but to make a sign. More than one wealthy wooer was 
waiting to be her lover. 

But she was quite willing to play the game with Basil. 
She had some remnants of honesty left. Then men did not 
appeal to her. She preferred them to women, that was 
about all that could be said for her emotions. 

She remembered Mrs. Annerley had once said some¬ 
thing rather pathetic about growing old alone in the 
world. 

“Some day I may feel that,” thought Jessica. “Some 
day I may want to get back and be a respectable as well 
as a charming woman. I think people would appreciate 
me. I see myself, a good-looking, rich widow, always 
beautifully dressed, and pre-eminently respectable.” 

216 


WHIRLWIND 


217 

Jessica sighed somewhat over the word respectable. It 
had an uncomfortable sound. 

“If I’m to be really respectable, I suppose I shall have 
to give up dressing so well as I do now.” And she doubted 
if she would know how to do that. She loved clothes, 
and decided not to grow too respectable, anyway, not all 
at once. 

“I wonder how one starts? I must spend a lot on 
charity. They say it covers a multitude of sins, or I 
might take a house and give dinner parties, only how 
should I get people to come to them?” 

Now she had a very adequate reason for wishing to 
know what her best course would be under such altered 
circumstances, but it is so very remote that she need not 
worry about it yet. 

“There’s a lot of truth in what Laura said,” thought 
Jessica, following yet another train of thought. “It’s 
what I feel myself. One must make the most of one’s 
own day. We all get on the shelf in the end, someone 
comes along, and finding us in the way puts us there and 
perhaps mutters, ‘What a funny old-fashioned bit of 
goods!’ Well, if it’s a well-cushioned shelf, what’s the 
odds?” 

Very philosophical, Jessica! But I rather think you 
will put up a fairly strenuous fight before you yield your 
sceptre to some younger rival, should that day ever come. 
But, when one is about twenty, it is easy to think we will 
be wise at eighty. 

A secure position in the days yet to be seemed easy of 
accomplishment at that distance, and if the terrible dis¬ 
closures old acquaintances might make occurred to her, 
she dismissed the fear of any discomfiture by repeating 
“that no one will recognise me twenty years hence.” 


218 


WHIRLWIND 


Twenty years seemed a long way to look ahead, and 
indeed at her age, which of us does not think the same ? 

Then she came back to the real reason why (twenty 
years hence or so), a quiet but beautiful country home, 
with pleasant neighbours, and perhaps a little hunting 
and shooting, might be very desirable things to possess. 

It was a reason she never forgot, but kept tucked away 
in a corner of her heart and brought forth and played 
with whenever she found herself with nothing else to do. 
And as she responded to the caressing insistence thereof 
and as she lingered over the whispering words in her 
heart, a sweetness strayed upon her lips, and a tenderness 
stirred within her that Desmond had never known and 
Lethbridge most certainly never suspected. 

Her life and the things thereof faded, and she floated 
away beyond the confines of her house, (beyond the city, 
far away, oh, far away, till she found a shady, sheltered 
village in the South. And there a little white house, 
very simple, very cosy, and altogether sweet in a setting of 
roses and honeysuckle, hollyhocks and other old-fashioned 
flowers, meet for the setting of little white houses. 

Bees, too, were there, humming round the open win¬ 
dows, busy among the flowers collecting for the hives 
whose tips just show above the wide hedge of lavender. 

It might be the house of some nice old lady, or romantic 
old bachelor who had finished with the gay world. And 
yet there was an elusive atmosphere of youth about the 
little place winking self-consciously at the sun. No self- 
respecting old person could have lived in such a merry 
twinkling little house. It was too gay and frivolous. 
Something more sober for old age, I think, something 
with less of the sun and more of the moon about it. 

Perhaps the gardener could have told us; or that 


WHIRLWIND 


219 


pleasant faced nurse in her neat white dress, crooning to 
the beautiful little baby on her knees, might know. 

Oh, but of course! This little white house belonged to 
Monsieur Bebe. 

All that order, that neat, fresh simplicity, that careful 
fencing off of everything not perfectly in keeping with 
sweet babyhood itself, was for that wonderful, beautiful, 
little baby boy. 

And then, in her thoughts, Jessica picked him up from 
the nurse’s lap and carried him in her arms, going to 
and fro between the lavender hedges. 

And this is why, twenty years or so hence, a country 
house with a little hunting and a little shooting seemed a 
very desirable thing. 

Dreams! Dreams! But what is the world without you! 

How on earth Jessica proposed to carry out her plans 
she never troubled to think. One thing only she was 
determined on—her boy should always adore his mother, 
and be to her what only a son can be to his mother. 
Neither should he ever feel the lack of father, brother or 
sister. She will be all these, and guide, philosopher and 
friend as well—she is fully convinced on those points. 

No wonder with these pleasant thoughts Jessica forgot 
the present. She was in fact very far from Mr. Leth¬ 
bridge, and remoter still from the excitement of her 
feverish life of constant competition; and constant pand¬ 
ering to one man’s desire. But as yet the fascination 
of making a man dance to whatever tune she liked to 
play, had all the element of novelty. And the innocent 
young lambkin had discovered she could pipe quite a lot 
of tunes. She would pipe away as artlessly as the lark 
executing his fantasia in the sky. And every time she 
piped a man would dance, and every time he danced she 


220 


WHIRLWIND 


smiled, and every time she smiled the poor fool thought 
“she loved him.” And then she would grow tired of 
playing that little tune and would play another. Then 
would another man dance while she turned her back on 
the first and forgot all about him. Then would he go 
out and hang himself. 

But she has seen other women pipe in vain. Already she 
had marked—and to her credit let us add had pitied— 
that furtive look of agony in the face of a woman, fearful 
of to-morrow, tortured by the sight of a younger, fresher 
face entering her field. What is the use of putting up a 
board: “Trespassers will be prosecuted,” when you lack 
the means to carry out your threat, and when the field is 
really no longer yours ? 

“No woman should put herself in that position,” says 
the excellent matron in the row behind us as we watch the 
reel unfolding. 

All very well from her point of view, and the good 
woman has been sharp enough to tie her man up in church. 
And if he should find married life a curse, and run away, 
well, she would be an injured woman and he a wicked 
man! 

But if Lethbridge forsook Jessica she would be a 
wicked woman still, while he might marry your own 
dainty self. 

Ah, what a lucky creature is man! His past always 
fades in time, while his future ever remains his own. 
But for such as Jessica, the past never quite fades, and 
the future lies at the mercy of anyone. 

But let us take another look at the little white house, 
and the young mother so admirably concerned on her 
babe’s behalf. 

We have not seen many pleasant pictures of poor 


WHIRLWIND 


221 


Jessica. It has been very difficult to discover in that 
luxury-loving, sensuous soul, the germ of something 
nobler. Herself, her comfort, her well-being were pre¬ 
eminently the Gods of her idolatry. But this little Mon¬ 
arch, so beautiful, strong and healthy, she knew (and 
gloried in the knowledge) was something that claimed 
her as nothing else in all the world could do, and com¬ 
manded something within her that could never be shared 
with any of the outside world. 

And pray do not shut this book up with a bang, ex¬ 
claiming “Impossible! She would hate her child, put it 
out to nurse and forget all about it.” 

Well, so far, she has certainly not shown one redeeming 
point, unless it be her simplicity, her naive acceptance of 
what she conceives to be right and natural. I freely 
admit my poor Jessica is about as bad a lot as you can 
hope to find. She is greedy, she is callous; with brain 
and talent she puts to no good use. She might do you 
a good turn if the doing interfered nothing with herself, 
but the bitterest tale of woe would not rob her of a particle 
of sleep. 

I give you all that, and then ask you to go out one day 
when the sun is shining and notice how the darkest 
shadows lie next the highest light. It is always so. It is 
the old story of the wheat and tares. 

“But a woman of that character could never be so 
exemplary a mother. You insult us by suggesting it.” 

Aha! There is the rub! It insults you in your 
womanhood to be told that though she be the very worst 
of wives, Jessica is also the very best of mothers. 

But few are altogether saints, and fewer still are al¬ 
together sinners. 

Nor is Jessica the common type of woman who sells 


222 


WHIRLWIND 


her body to the highest bidder so that she may live expen¬ 
sively. She had taste—judgment—a keen critical faculty. 
There was nothing vulgar about her mind. If she spent 
lavishly, she spent beautifully also. 

Social convention denies such a love, and claims that 
a bad wife must also prove a bad mother. And the fact 
that she may prove the tenderest teacher and gentlest, 
ablest of guides, is something Society prefers to pass over 
in silence. 

And Jessica was still holding her baby in her arms 
when Sophie took it upon herself to warn her mistress 
how time was flying. And something there was, some 
added grace in the lithe, slow movements, some new 
beauty in the smile, made even the maid exclaim in aston¬ 
ishment ! 

“But Madame is ravishing! What has she done to 
herself ?” 

“Nothing, you silly woman, but dream awhile. White 
velvet and pearls, Sophie.” 

* * * * * 

It was an excellent, fair figure that finally went into 
dinner, tall and slim in its soft white velvet. Yes, very 
youthful and girlish; and very gracefully it received later 
on at the opera, only insisting on silence during the acts. 

The opera was not in Lethbridge’s line, so Jessica had 
asked two people, a woman and a young author, to dine 
and accompany her thither. They made a merry party, 
whose three bright brains kept the talk on an amusing 
and intelligent plane. 

Radiant, too, was Jessica at the dance. She arrived 
very late. Had she not to go home and dress first ? And 


WHIRLWIND 


223 


to rub her face with some liquid that was warranted 

to refresh the skin and keep it free from the enervating 
effects of the ball-room?” 

The host was shortly leaving Europe to hold an exhibi¬ 
tion in America, and the ball was a farewell party to the 
whole Art world of Paris, and part of the greater world 
as well. He received his guests dressed as a cave man, 
which costume chiefly consisted of a club. His favourite 
model was held to him by one arm and leg by a golden 
chain. Otherwise she wore nothing—but her perfectly 
good figure. People said it typified their relations. 

The gaiety was somewhat out of hand when Jessica 
arrived, but late as was the hour and occupied as everyone 
appeared to be, her entrance was as brilliant as ever. 

She called herself “Potiphar’s wife” and looked extra¬ 
ordinarily effective. Her dress revealed and concealed 
and glimmered and glinted in a way that was—well, 
worthy of Mrs. Potiphar. The designer had taken in¬ 
finite pains, museums had been burrowed, libraries over¬ 
hauled, shops ravished to find the right tissues and colours. 
These he had himself draped upon Jessica, watching care¬ 
fully that all was done as he had planned, and when she 
entered the ballroom her success was instantaneous. She 
was superb, triumphant, and she knew it. 

Where was her rival, the lovely Claire de Brisson now ? 
That lady had come as the Queen of the Peacocks and 
a great success had been hers, her dark eyes had glowed 
and she had all the men at her feet—till Mrs. Potiphar 
arrived! 

But what use to tell of all the glories of the night? 
We have all been to such balls, and know the crashing of 
the mad, merry music; the shuffle of dancing feet, the 
excitement, the flushed faces, the laughter and talk, while 


224 


WHIRLWIND 


merry jests pass, and pranks are played, and devil a care 
has anyone. It was all very wonderful and quite different 
from the reunions of the British Teatable Poetical Society. 

Jessica danced with the rest and passed little Eileen 
with her American millionaire. She was having quite 
a success too, and had (on Jessica’s advice) adopted the 
costume of “La Dame aux Camellias.” “A big crinoline, 
and a frock—fluffy, soft, white—with little gloves of the 
period, and a little old-fashioned tight bouquet of cam¬ 
ellias. Some in your hair and some on your bodice,” 
Jessica had suggested, when urging the suitability of the 
character to Eileen’s demure little person. 

“Real cute, and the most perfectly lovely peach in 
creation,” had been the American’s summing up. 

And the “most perfectly lovely peach” looked down and 
blushed while calculating on the exact number of millions 
he might be relieved of. 

If the dance was noisy when Jessica arrived, it grew 
Bacchanalian as time went on. The Queen of the Pea¬ 
cocks had long ago lost most of her feathers; while Mrs. 
Potiphar began to wonder whether she was Mrs. Potiphar 
decked out to allure Joseph in all her glory, or Eve before 
the Fall. 

Louder the music and faster. Coloured lights fell on 
the dancers. Wilder, merrier, noisier, more and more 
fantastic, more and more impossible the revel. Leth¬ 
bridge lowered his hot flushed face, till his mouth was 
barely separate from Jessica’s cool, tantalising lips. 

“Mrs. Potiphar! Mrs. Potiphar!” 

The shouts came from a balcony that ran round the 
room and showers of roses were flung at her. 

“Mrs. Potiphar! Mrs. Potiphar!” 

The shouts came again, and the host’s pupils, dressed 


WHIRLWIND 


225 


like himself as cave men, made a rush into the centre of 
the room, and snatching Jessica from her partner, carried 
her in triumph upon their shoulders round the room, and 
round again! 

The idea of Potiphar’s wife appealed to those light 
hearts, and the lark, started by a few boys, caught on, 
and spread through all the noisy crowd that soon formed 
a procession and danced round the room, beating cymbals, 
blowing on horns, playing any improvised instrument 
that suggested itself while cries of “Madame Potiphar! 
Madame Potiphar!” almost drowned the music of the 
band. 

Lethbridge got her back in the end, breathless, dis¬ 
hevelled, her dress tom, and her jewels scattered. 
Laughing, gasping for breath, she gave herself up to 
him, and he carried her off there and then, hot for her, 
rampant to possess his own. 

* * * * * 

The little white house has gone to sleep long ago, 
its little shutters closed, and the bees are silent in their 
hives. It had nothing in common with all that noise and 
glitter, with the brilliant feted woman, the crashing 
music, the mad dancers, the lights, the joys, the triumphs, 
and the disappointments. And to make one triumph like 
Jessica's, how many failures are needed? 

Nothing with all this had the cool little house to do, 
set away in the shrubs and dew-drenched lawns, and less 
than nothing with the man who almost crushed the 
woman in his arms, whispering hoarsely: 

“You devil, you devil. Kiss me again, you devil.” 

Proud of her he was, proud that his bargain had proved 


226 


WHIRLWIND 


so successful, and it was a late, late hour next day when 
an exhausted, unshaved, tousled man rolled out of bed 
and stumbled towards the bathroom. 

And a much, much later hour it was, before a trim 
and faultless maid thought well to inquire in her soft and 
deferential voice: 

“What scent will Madame use to-day ?” 

But Madame had no intention of rising even then. It 
was not till late in the afternoon that Jessica’s bell rang, 
and once again Sophie put the inevitable query. 

“What scent will Madame use to-day?” 

“Lily of the Valley,” answered her mistress, still feel¬ 
ing a little languid and wishful only for simplicity. 

But a few days after these lurid events Jessica suddenly 
decided to shut up house. 

“I want rest and change,” said dear Jessica to dear 
Basil. 

“All right,” he answered. “But come back soon.” 

And as he saw her comfortably settled in the train: 

“Give the youngster a kiss from his godfather and tell 
him he’s the only male thing I’m jealous of.” 

“That’s really very nice of you,” answered Jessica, 
quite touched for the moment. “I’ll give your message 
exactly.” 

It was late autumn and winter’s feet had already trod¬ 
den the tips of the hills. Beeches, oaks and chestnuts had 
shed their summer leaves to give place to finer, greener 
clothes they hoped to wear next spring. These each tree 
was making slowly, with infinite patience, and no little 
talent. 

But how lovely are the woods in winter! How the 
shape of each tree stands out against the red of the pass¬ 
ing sun! How finely do they rise from the crisp leaves 


WHIRLWIND 


227 


thick as sands about the sea. And as we rustle our way 
through the deep places of the woods, something of sum¬ 
mer comes back in the smell of the warm dust rising as 
we go. 

Beautiful crisp, sharp woods of winter, crackling and 
splintering under foot, what shelter for little scampering 
things do your leaves provide! 

Thoughtful, kindly woods! Brown and rugged, thin 
but comely, with here and there a yew and here and there 
a holly. And winding in and out, as though it had no 
business there, a little trickling water, trespassing and 
timorous, yet greatly daring withal, beating through cob¬ 
webby ice delicately woven in frost. 

There is a silence in the winter woods that summer 
with her jolly court can never know. There is a silence 
in the winter birds more deep, profound and sweet than 
any song the blackbird sings; and there are people in 
the winter woods busy as any midsummer Puck, while 
songs are heard as loud as any paeans of the spring, and 
multitudes whisper in the winter woods that are silent in 
the noisy summer days. 

Now if we make no sound, we may hear the little 
people move amidst the bracken; not the folk we knew in 
summer, who passed with pageantry and song. Such are 
the children of the sun, the roysterers. These little brown 
people are the keepers of the earth, and toil they ever 
so hard the winter through their work is never done. 
They tip the holly tree with berries; hang the hips and 
haws out on the branches; and see the ice is broken in 
the little pools in quiet places, so birds may get more 
easily to drink. 

Comes now, loping through the byways of the forest, 
a low figure, flaming like a torch, streaming, creeping in 


228 


WHIRLWIND 


and out the woods, or like a tongue of fire that steals in 
secret through the rafters in the roof. 

Silently and stealthily, very warily and cannily, to some 
unspoken destination. 

So calm the life about us, so organised and well ap¬ 
portioned, yonder sudden scuttling of some hurried little 
person breaks upon us like an outrage and we start as 
though at thunder. 

There he goes, way on ahead, across the bank on our 
right in that whirl of leaves! All brown fur and startled 
eyes! 

Yet this is the hour of safety, the hour when the pale 
moon, looking like some great primrose, comes out to 
salute the sun, who stands in full state and then passes on 
to function in . another world. The huntsman has long 
ago called off his hounds; you may see them winding 
along the lanes to kennels, each dog doubtless thinking 
of his bed of straw and discussing the day’s sport as thor¬ 
oughly as the followers riding in twos and threes 
behind. 

The man with the gun can see no longer; his thoughts 
are turned from killing and stray towards the comfort 
of his own fireside. A tacit armistice has been proclaimed; 
there is nothing to fear from men, only a little later they 
may have to be careful of each other. 

The little people, however, are still busy putting things 
to rights, even occasionally snapping off a branch sharp in 
their eagerness to have everything snug before the last 
flickers of the light go out. 

Now the birds warm their nests for the night, and the 
blue comes creeping up from the valley. No sound is 
there until the silence shrieks like some tortured thing as 
a rush of flame reels, rocks and roars, heaving across 


WHIRLWIND 


229 


the land suddenly from out the hill to pass, thudding, 
into the distant night. 

Up comes the blue shroud and hushes the world to 
sleep again and mends the broken silence. No nightingale 
breaks the stillness of a winter night; no dog barks from 
farm or fold; nor cattle, restless and hot, low their com- 
plaints. 

Yet someone walks abroad when you least think anyone 
is there. Someone who notices every blade of grass, and 
every twig on the tree, and loves the tops of the little 
furrows in the ploughed land, but most of all, I think, 
is he enamoured of the big rough hedge where the bramble 
leaves yet cling. 

He is a great craftsman and cuts the world out in silver 
to hang upon the brow of the night, or diadem the fore¬ 
head of the sun. 

But let us get clear of the woods. It is growing late 
and we hinder those who yet have work to do. 

Out on the uplands we may linger if we will, mark 
the hills washed into purples, the great shadows and pale 
streaks of light, and everywhere the tingling, pulsing, 
energy that now lies down to rest. 

There is no wind to-night, only a cold air breathing. 

The earth hangs in an ocean of air, like a great ship 
she navigates through space, sailing in silence—and to 
what port? To-night, the earth might be some mighty 
primeval god, housed in a monumental shrine. A god 
alone in space, awful, silent, waiting the worship over¬ 
due. 

Is there not some great dead, laid out in state, down 
there in the valley ? Are there not prophets on the hills ? 
Are there not watchers in the woods? Are we alone, 
you and I ? 


230 


WHIRLWIND 


And overhead the yellow moon wanders vaguely up and 
down her empty halls. 

The moon is like a yellow lily to-night. She hangs in 
the air as the earth hangs. But the earth is alive, and 
the moon is dead. The moon is heavy, and dull, but the 
stars are like the twinkling feet of dancers. The moon is 
like the palace the revellers have left. The stars are the 
lights of heaven seen through little windows. 

Soft hands beckon to us from the mist. Strange 
people are concealing themselves in the mist. They gather 
together in the shade of the trees. No man has seen them, 
neither may we see them, but we know most certainly 
they are there. Who are these strange people moving 
and waving to us from the mist? Who bid us leave 
them to their solitude ? What matter who they are ? We 
must obey. Let us leave them to their lonely world! We 
are far from home. Let us go. 

* * * * * 

Welcome burst of light at the wide hall door and gush¬ 
ing warmth that rushes out to meet us! Come, pull up 
chairs to the big log fire, spread hands to the hearty 
flame, let comfort get hold upon us, so we forget those 
vague forms still creeping outside in the mist. 

* * * * * 

This is the inmost sanctuary. The other rooms are 
but outer courts, but this sacred place is where His 
Majesty deigns to receive his subjects. 

We are privileged to enter and watch the proceedings 
of the court, therefore I pray you to come with me. 

He is a fine, sturdy little man, pink and glowing from 
the bath, struggling cheerily in his mother’s arms. 


WHIRLWIND 


231 


“Darling,” cries the enraptured mother. 

Gurgle and chuckle and crow and broken little words 
for answer. 

“He gets stronger every day, nurse,” cries Jessica, 
delighted to feel the strong arms struggle and the sturdy 
kicking of the little legs. “He grows in the night, like— 
like, what is the most beautiful flower that comes up 
quickest, my darling?” 

But nurse is quite matter of fact, like all thoroughly 
efficient people. 

“He’s stronger than a flower, madam. He’s like a 
hoak. Feel those arms, and look at his legs. There’s 
muscle!” 

Jessica does as nurse bids; she has done it often before 
and will again, and ever with increasing pride. 

“You’re not to say it to please me, nurse, but did you 
ever see a finer child at his age?” 

“Never, ma’am, and I’ve nursed many.” 

And Jessica nearly raised the woman’s wages on the 
spot. I am not going to discuss the order of the bath, 
with its sweet performances and ministrations, and its 
no less sweet little naughtinesses. 

Beautifully, perfectly, does Jessica play her part, but it 
takes a long time, so often has she to stoop and kiss the 
exquisite little body on her knee. 

“Quicksilver and gold, all wrapped about with beauty,” 
sings Jessica. “Mother’s delight and everyone’s envy, 
and her own, own ownest one,” and many other silly 
things which show her to be soft headed if her heart is 
made of more durable substance. 

But the hero of all this loving ceremony suddenly de¬ 
crees for bed. A small thumb goes into a small mouth 
and Jessica carries her boy into the night nursery, and 


232 


WHIRLWIND 


walking softly up and down, sings her child to sleep, the 
little head nestling at her breast and her own lovely face 
bending down close to his. 

She sings the old, old nursery songs: “Little Jack 
Horner,” and “Here we go gathering nuts and may,” 
and one or two of the old, old nursery hymns: “There’s 
a home for little children.” Many a time had she sung 
it when, as the vicar’s daughter, it had been incumbent on 
her to attend the children’s services at Towchester. 
Words and music seemed banal then. Now they had a 
charm, almost a tenderness and certainly a wistful appeal, 
as asking for a little kindliness. 

“And a more perfect mother, I have never seen,” says 
nurse to her underling as the two women set the bath¬ 
room to rights. 

She was a most estimable woman born to nurse chil¬ 
dren, to be adored by them in their babyhood, bullied, 
and obeyed by them as they grew older, confided in by 
them in after years, though possibly still held a little 
in awe since she ever told them exactly what she thought 
of them. 

“There’s a Friend for little children.” If the painters 
who so constantly and vainly sought permission to paint 
her portrait, could have seen Jessica then, surely they 
would have chosen to picture her with that light in her 
eyes, that smile about her lips, that tender strength in the 
enfolding arms, and the unstudied poise of the graceful 
head. 

There are many pictures of Madonnas and many are 
very beautiful, but I know none so wistful and in its 
own way so pathetic, or wherein so much mother love is 
shown. 

And when you hear of the sins and follies and the wel- 


WHIRLWIND 


233 


ter of degradation that Jessica passed through, never 
forget the picture of this most admirable of mothers sing¬ 
ing her child to sleep with the hymns of childhood, con¬ 
tent and happy, proud of her motherhood, and with a look 
on her face no man ever knew. 

But it is over now. The monarch of all he surveys is 
sound asleep, and Jessica has given the last little tuck 
to the little clothes, the last kiss on the little cheek, and 
for the last time, the little thumb has been, oh, so gently, 
removed from the little mouth. One last look round, a 
few little pleasant words and smiles, and Jessica leaves 
the two nurses to themselves. 

Oh! those little words and smiles of Jessica! They 
fall from her as easily as dew upon the flowers of May, 
and yet, what havoc they can work! 

There is one man who has been in love with her for 
years, just because she gave him a smile in the theatre! 

He told me it was the way she turned, and looked, and 
smiled; and when I asked what she’d said, he replied: 
“Nothing, we were only of the same theatre party, and I 
never got a word with her all the evening.” 

What wonder then, that when she really set herself to 
be pleasant she should succeed to such perfection? To her 
dying day the nurse remembered the picture of Jessica 
bending over the nursery fire, smiling and saying some¬ 
thing kind, and she would tell you “she don’t remember 
exactly how it was, but it was quite different to the man¬ 
ner of any other lady I have known.” 

Warm with her work in the nursery and feeling the 
need of fresh air, Jessica picked up some furs in the hall 
and took a quick walk in the garden before settling down 
for the evening. 

“How perfectly lovely it is!” thought Jessica. “And 


2 34 


WHIRLWIND 


underneath this ground lots of things are growing, all 
sealed up safely till the right time comes to let them out. 
It’s like a busy man in his office. Great schemes, great 
plans are going forward in his brain.” 

That evening after her simple dinner, simple and short 
—but need it be said most excellent?—Jessica took out 
her fiddle and played to herself for hours. 

Softly she played, though the drawing-room being an 
addition to the house, no sound could reach the nursery. 
Occasionally, she amused herself with sudden little im¬ 
promptus; she was not performing for the benefit of any 
musician, not even strictly for her own pleasure. She was 
in reality talking out loud, thus she was led to take a theme 
and improvise—she never remembered her variations— 
could not have played them even a second time. 

“When I am old and grey,” thought she, with the as¬ 
surance of youth that only believed in its own eternity, 
“when the boy has grown up, we will live together. He 
must go to Eton”—oh, Jessica!—“but he must know 
French, and when he knows French he shall go to Italy. 
Oh, I want to be something wonderful to my boy.” Here 
the fiddle went suddenly into a labyrinth of arpeggios. 
“He must always love me, and I will, I will be the best 
mother in the world to him. I must get hold of a man 
who can be a real friend to him in the future. He will 
want someone to tell him where to go for collars and ties 
and boots. But in all essentials my boy will always be 
mine.” 

The violin changed the tune and it was a delicate air 
went forth on the winter night. 

“When he is a little older, when / am a little older, it 
will be time to settle down. After all, it might be wiser 
to stay abroad. People don’t ask so many questions. 


WHIRLWIND 


235 


England might be difficult, besides I hate the climate. 
Then the boy must swim and handle a boat. Still, there’s 
no hurry—Che Sara, Sara.” 

Then she put her fiddle away and, sitting by the fire, 
looked into the blazing logs and built plans for that 
nebulous by and by, yet such a great way off. 

This little white house knew nothing of ostentation. 
Jessica’s taste was too good to permit the intrusion into 
her country cottage of the splendour and sumptuous ap¬ 
pointments of her city home. But it was obviously the 
home of a rich young widow, who, it was understood, 
had taken the house chiefly for her child’s sake. It was 
very simple, but very good, and consequently quite extra¬ 
ordinarily expensive. The neighbours knew that Mrs. 
Lethbridge was English and therefore, they also knew, 
mad, in any case far too young and pretty to bury herself 
alive. She often came to stay, was a perfect mother, and 
a charming neighbour. As to anything more: “Have we 
not told you she is English, and, of course mad!” 

The next day passed happily, but quietly, mostly in 
attendance on His Majesty, and when evening came round 
there was again the dinner alone, and another evening— 
alone also. 

That night Jessica brought out some new and difficult 
music that she meant to work up during the long even¬ 
ings. It proved quite exciting and the time passed quickly. 
She was surprised to see how late it was. The new com¬ 
poser was complex but extraordinarily interesting. 
“What a pity there is no one with whom she can talk 
him over.” Yes, indeed! H’m! 

The next day was a repetition of the last, but feeling 
a little triste, Jessica invited the local doctor and his wife 
to dinner. Good, worthy people, and the hostess did her 


236 


WHIRLWIND 


best to entertain them. It was somewhat of an effort, 
but ten o’clock struck at last, and the visitors, with their 
early country habits, rose on the first stroke to depart. 

“I wonder if the time will come when I, too, shall think 
it the right thing to say good-night the instant the clock 
strikes ten,” Jessica wondered when once more she found 
herself alone and sitting gazing into the great log fire. 
“Really, the way those two good people hurried off to 
their bed was almost indecent, but they’re kind, dear 
souls. Life must be very easy in a village like this, very 
healthy too. I wonder how the boy would like to be a 
farmer? I might buy a farm. Fresh eggs and cream are 
so good.” 

But even as she spoke, she yawned. The house was 
surely curiously silent. Jessica rose impatiently and 
looked out into the night. How solemn! How porten¬ 
tous ! Very vast and eternal, and singularly aloof, as 
though it despised her and her little plans, her little life 
and everything about her. It was all so black and big, 
it seemed to engulf her! She drew the curtains and, 
strange! but the same curious air of expectancy, of aloof¬ 
ness, had crept into the house. Even her tables and chairs 
appeared to be gazing at her, much as a dog squats watch¬ 
ing his master. 

“It’s absurd, but everything seems to have life. Petri¬ 
fied, but with horrible active brains, and they dare to 
criticise me. I could imagine they were making up their 
minds about me, and the moment I go upstairs they will 
begin picking me to pieces.” 

She went into the hall. The same quiet, scrutinising, 
watchful eyes were there also. She went back into the 
drawing-room and took up a book and sat down to read. 
It was a new book, one that had created a good deal of 


WHIRLWIND 


237 


stir, and Jessica was very anxious to read it. After two 
minutes she put it down—a log had fallen with a crash 
that seemed to her tense ears a most colossal noise. 

“Why should the country get on one’s nerves? Do we 
town folk lose a certain sense ? Does some little nerve in 
us get atrophied ?” 

Eventually she went to bed, feeling that every stick of 
furniture in the house disapproved of her. She peeped 
into the nursery on her way and found all very still save 
for the breathing of the occupants. 

Jessica had no maid at the little white house. Sophie 
would not have been in the picture, besides she would 
have talked and that would never have done, so Jessica 
put herself to bed and rather enjoyed the, by now, some¬ 
what novel experience. 

Next morning was one of those very still days with¬ 
out any wind, or sun, but with a certain amount of light 
and a certain amount of cold air. 

Jessica went out and found the silence more than she 
could endure. She would have shaken the trees if by so 
doing she could have put some life into them. 

“These trees are most superior persons,” she said as 
she walked quickly through the woods for the sake of 
exercise and because there was nothing else to do. “They 
remind me of elderly dowagers, impregnable, patronising, 
and without the minutest sense of humour.” 

Finding luncheon by herself intolerably boring, Jessica 
adjourned to the nursery and shared her own meal with 
the nurse. Jessica insisted on nurse acting as hostess, 
and altogether she quite enjoyed herself. 

In the afternoon the car took her for a little drive, and 
brought her back for tea, and for that meal (and for the 
same reason) she again invaded the nursery. 


238 


WHIRLWIND 


Then came the bath and concluding rites, all dutifully 
and delightfully performed—but after that? When she 
found herself alone—or dear! oh dear! She thought the 
evening would never close. 

“I’m perfectly happy in the nursery, but I can’t live 
there,” sighed poor Jessica. “Nurse wouldn’t like it. 
She’s an expert at her job. That’s why she’s here, and 
experts hate amateurs messing around.” 

She picked up the book of the night before, but couldn’t 
fix her attention on it for two minutes. She picked up 
her fiddle, but struck such a wail of anguish the poor 
thing might have been possessed. 

“It was just nine when I began to fiddle last night and 
the night before that. If I fiddle every evening at nine, 
some time when someone was here, I should smash it 
over my visitor’s head. I know I should.” 

Poor Jessica! Already bored to the verge of tears. 
And yet with what real joy did you not hasten to pay one 
of your by no means infrequent visits to the little white 
house! How impatiently you spun along the road from 
the station! And how the whole world caught the blaz¬ 
ing joy within you when you held that soft little crowing 
person in your arms once more. 

Your love is just as great, your tenderness as true, 
your devotion undiminished—and yet—and yet . . . 

When she got herself into bed that night, she sighed 
resignedly: “I am a most unnatural mother,” and turn¬ 
ing over, fell into her usual sound and healthy sleep. 

The next day Lethbridge received a wire that his truant 
would be back for dinner. The servant who took her 
telegram thought she was wiring to her maitre d’hotel. 


XX 


Custom is very curious, it gives one even stranger bed¬ 
fellows than adversity! There is nothing one cannot get 
accustomed to in time, and our turtle doves became so 
used to each other, and the connection lasted so long, that 
the liaison became almost respectable. Indeed, they 
threatened to sink into graves which, if not exactly hon¬ 
ourable, could not be stigmatised as altogether unhallowed. 

In time they might even have wanted to go and get 
married, and who could blame them ? One must do some¬ 
thing, and marriage would have been a new experience, 
and might have turned out quite a success. You never 
can tell. True, there was once a couple who never had a 
word till they foolishly decided to marry. That spoilt an 
otherwise perfect arrangement. Each felt the other had 
taken a mean advantage of a moment’s weakness. I be¬ 
lieve they even took to flinging things at each other’s 
heads! Ah, well! You never can tell. 

And this might have befallen our loving couple, but 
for a sad accident. One day, when hunting in Leicester¬ 
shire, Basil broke his neck. That upset things. They 
could never be the same again, could they? Not after 
that. 

Jessica was deeply grieved, and wondered if she ought 
not to wear widow’s weeds? Her friends said it was 
quite unnecessary, but, on the whole, she thought it would 


239 


240 


WHIRLWIND 


look better, and ordered the most expensive, and becom¬ 
ing, that could be got. She was also genuinely touched 
at the nice little sum bequeathed her, and the letter he 
had left with his solicitor to be forwarded in case of his 
death. 

He thanked her for the good time they had had to¬ 
gether. He had grown much fonder of her than he had 
thought possible, and trusted she had never regretted 
their union either? He said he was sorry sometimes, in 
his better moments, for the husband she had left, es¬ 
pecially “considering all the circumstances which might 
have drawn them together perhaps.” It was a good letter, 
and Jessica appreciated both it, and the writer’s motives; 
she also appreciated the nice little sum in ready money 
which came quite unexpectedly and more than paid for 
her weeds. 

“I never expected anything. He had been more than 
generous. Poor fellow. He was a good chap.” And 
she had serious thoughts of settling down, and leading a 
quiet and godly life, and refused all invitations for quite 
a long time. 

However, Jessica never turned fully the leaf she had 
half turned over. 

She was still young, and a hundred hands pulled her 
back, so in the end she allowed herself to be pulled. About 
that time she began to travel far and wide, and penetrated 
where few women had ever been. But ever she soon re¬ 
turned to Europe. A few months in Uganda or China 
were enough. From Japan she went to America, but 
wherever she went success followed her. In the States 
she was offered fabulous sums by theatrical managers to 
appear at their theatres. But theatrical life seemed weari¬ 
some and overrated. The salary and advertisement were 


WHIRLWIND 


241 

both magnificent, but then she did not stand in need of 
either. 

Still, no one denies the phenomenal success of a certain 
film entitled “The Vampire Vamped/’ was entirely due 
to the much featured “Lovely Mrs. Arming” who played 
the vampire, and bore a striking resemblance to the Mrs. 
Desmond Antrobus of a few years before. 

However, this is all as it may be. Only when Jessica 
left America she was certainly a much richer woman than 
when she landed there. 

She still dreamed dreams, but always the time was not 
yet. At twenty-two she had given herself till thirty-two, 
well, what is thirty-two after all, when you are thirty- 
four? Besides she had grown somewhat acclimatised to 
her life, I don’t think she could have quite given it up 
altogether. 

About that period of her career, she began to hear 
rumours of Desmond. At first the news came as quite 
a surprise. She had almost forgotten him. But as he 
rose in importance, she was bound to hear about him, 
and when he stood for Parliament she grew quite inter¬ 
ested. 

But it was the news of a stranger, and when she met 
his portrait in the papers, she was shocked to see how he 
was ageing. She flew to the looking-glass! fearful lest 
she might show signs of a similar tendency. Thank 
heavens! If the girlish lines had vanished, they had only 
merged into those of a very lovely woman. Jessica 
put the glass down with a sigh of relief. 

“Poor Desmond, I suppose it’s the life he leads,” she 
said. “We were no good together. We strangled each 
other. Our epitaph should be ‘United they fell, divided 
they rose/ ” 


242 


WHIRLWIND 


Jessica made a rapid calculation and was quite aston¬ 
ished to find how long ago it was since she had left that 
horrid house in Battersea. Good heavens—it must be 
quite—how old was her boy? Yes, quite a long, long 
time. 

She looked in the glass again, very carefully, very 
critically. Really it was wonderful. A glow of satisfac¬ 
tion warmed her heart at the sight, and she sat down to 
write to that same boy, now doing quite respectably at 
a very excellent school. 

She herself at that time happened to be yachting about 
Greece with some friends. “Charming people, dear boy,” 
she wrote, “and a most beautiful yacht. The host is a 
man of great wealth, a good fellow, and does us all extra¬ 
ordinarily well.” 

There was no mention of a charming hostess! There 
very seldom was on these occasions. But Jessica knew 
quite well that self-praise was no praise. 

There was a curious bond between the mother and son. 
The love, the care and thought of former years had not 
been wasted. Her passionate love for her boy was re¬ 
turned fully by the young schoolboy who was enormously 
proud of his beautiful mother. 

Sometimes he wondered if she wasn’t a little lonely. 
He knew she visited pleasure haunted places during his 
school term, but she did not seem to make many real 
friends. True, there was a certain Mrs. Annerley, a 
quiet, dignified, old lady with wonderful white hair, and 
there were two or three others. They were kind to him, 
and quite charming to his mother, but the boy thought 
they were rather old and uninteresting. 

I think on the whole Jessica had practically solved the 
problem of leading two lives. It took a bit of contriving. 


WHIRLWIND 


243 


But she had certainly grown a harder woman. It amused 
her to steal another woman’s man. It amused her to get 
all she could from some fool and give nothing back, and 
she found an excitement in playing one man off against 
another, and hoodwinking both. 

She could afford to be a little reckless. She was a very 
rich woman now, and just as years ago she had said 
Social position is nothing, there is always someone with 
a better,” so now she made the discovery, “however rich 
the lover you quarrel with to-day, there is always a richer 
round the corner.” 

But not many ladies can afford to play with their bread 
and butter in this airy, fairy fashion; but Jessica was 
rather an exceptional lady. She was Queen in her own 
kingdom. The gilding of the palace might be somewhat 
tarnished, the splendour rather more opulent than regal, 
still it was a kingdom, and one of the most ancient in the 
world. 

But for only one of all the courtiers who crowded her 
court did she ever feel any respect; and once only had her 
heart been touched, once and once only had she caught 
a glimpse of that elusive thing named love. 

She was well over thirty then, and he was the merest 
boy, very Saxon, very fair, very English. 

It is by no means a happy experience for Jessica. The 
boy first dazzled, flattered, carried off his feet, became 
rapidly disillusioned. He was distinctly sane, and when 
Jessica over-acted her part, as every woman does who falls 
in love with someone much younger than herself, the boy 
grew visibly bored. He was ashamed of the costly 
presents she showered upon him. It galled him to be 
taken about and paid for as though he were one of her 
goods and chattels. It riled him to be chaffed about any 


244 


WHIRLWIND 


girl acquaintances she might have seen him with, the 
truth being, she was terribly jealous and sought to find 
out if she had a rival. The boy resented her treatment, 
and grew (to use his own vernacular) “fed up.” So one 
fine day Jessica received a large parcel and a small, very 
boyish, stiff little note, thanking her for all her kindness, 
but adding, “I don’t feel I can accept all these presents. 
It’s awfully good of you, but I’d rather not.” 

“Never again,” cried Jessica. “Never again! Fancy 
my being such a fool as to fall in love with a boy! I 
grew jealous, and showed it. I overdid the whole thing. 
The moment a woman allows a man to think himself 
indispensable, she becomes cheap. He feels so secure that 
he takes time to look at the rest of us.” 

Evidently she had been betrayed into becoming a bore! 
She was—well, how old was she ? Something over thirty. 
She was still magnificent, still a reigning beauty, still the 
Queen she was ten, twelve, or a few more years ago. But 
the boy was barely twenty, and, above all, she had bored 
him. 

She got over it in time. (In quite a short time to be 
truthful.) And ever after she treated boys as though 
she was their elder sister. In fact was a very good friend 
to more than one. They all became her slaves, and she 
quite enjoyed mothering or sistering them. She was a 
good soul really, but occasionally she lost her balance. 

She had a great heart, yes, a very big great heart, but 
clasped, clamped, chained with iron, a little key could 
open it. And that little key was in the hands of a child, 
a child now grown to boyhood. 

May we not call that heart of Jessica’s her temple, her 
cathedral ? Therein dwelt the immortal part of her; very 
different from the material, feverish, pleasure-loving 


WHIRLWIND 


245 

creature that haunted the golden, glittering, gorgeous 
palaces of joy. 

And in one of the corridors of such a palace was it 
that Jessica met with her great adventure. 

He was called the Toreador. He was not a toreador; 
in fact no one quite knew what he was, but most certainly 
he was not that. 

How he got into the palace at all was ever a mystery; 
apparently his sole credential was his ability to riot when 
the rioting was rowdiest, and feast when the feast was 
most rich. 

Some said he came from the east, vaguely aware the 
east covered a multitude of sins. Others that he came 
from the Argentine, full well knowing the Argentine 
covered a multitude of millionaires. But whether he came 
from north, south, east or west, nobody really knew. 

But wherever the revellers revelled most wildly, where 
the dice flew quickest and the wine flowed fastest and 
the dance was danced most nakedly and unashamedly, 
there was he, the wildest, most drunken and abandoned 
of the lot. 

A thousand stories gathered about him. It was said 
he was insatiable regarding women, that his mistresses 
led the lives of slaves. He was the laughing stock of 
all, and the fleeced of most who met him. 

Jessica, feasting at a rich man’s table, found he was 
regarding her with much the expression she imagined a 
farmer would scan the prize cattle at a show. 

She caught his eye and involuntarily she smiled. To 
her chagrin the possible purchaser made no response, but, 
having run his eye over her, proceeded to examine the 
other exhibits. 

Now this was the greatest feast the rich man had ever 


246 


WHIRLWIND 


given. Flowers hung in great festoons, or twined in 
garlands about the pillars or the portals of the doors. 
Banks of sweet blossoms, flowering plants, were set about 
the rooms, wine flowed in fountains; wine was as plenti¬ 
ful as water in the sea. Delicate fruits were placed on 
tables of gold set with precious stones. Music rose from 
dark green bowers. Songs rose from delicate throats, 
trilled like silver flutes and brought the groves of ancient 
Greece before one. Over all shone lights, and all around 
the revellers laughed and joyed. 

And through the mazes of the palace, through the 
carved and golden doors, beneath silver ceilings, past 
tapestried walls, treading silken carpets the softest that 
ever the east could weave, moved Jessica, the Queen of 
all that court. 

At this period I think she had developed her greatest 
beauty. The time was past when she danced all night, 
and gone the days when Madame Potiphar would be 
carried round the room, but still certainly, most certainly, 
she reigned Imperial Empress of the Feast, and the 
Toreador thirsted for her when he marked her great 
success. 

The dance went on. The lights turned brighter and 
fresh petals fell from hidden places. The Toreador saw 
nothing of the delicate splendour. The subtle art of 
opulent magnificence treated as nought by the certain 
rich man who gave the feast. He knew but to drink 
strong drink and eat rich food greedily as animal feeds on 
animal and passion grows with passion. He looked 
again at Jessica, and her white body gleaming through 
tissues proved more exciting than naked beauty un¬ 
adorned. 



WHIRLWIND 


247 

There was a cool green place, where water tinkled, 
open to the night, bared to the great big stupid moon, 
and a few stars shaking as in fear. Passion was sleeping 
there, with one eye open. Opportunity lurked in the 
background, ready to spring. 

Rose up scent of syringas, lilacs, orange and lemon 
groves. The air hot, heavy, silent, thick with desires; 
with dead pagan passions waiting their rebirth. 

Cool, green, sequestered place! How set about with 
cunning traps! Oh, little place of green, how other art 
thou to that which thou would’st seem. 

Here, unlooked for, unexpected and unsought each 
found the other. She, halting for an instant’s breathing 
space, he half drunken, brutalised, bestial, blood-shot eyed, 
flaming cheeked, openmouthed. He made a sound, some¬ 
thing between a grunt and a bellow, swayed, staggered, 
and stumbled towards her. 

Behold them! Intoxicated with pleasure, doped with 
the din of the revel, clinging breast to breast, lip to lip, so 
close no trail of breath escaped. 

Oh, certain rich man who gave the feast, was it for this 
you made that place of green? Open to the night and 
few stars shaking as in fear? 

* * * * * 

Now came an experience undreamed of in Jessica’s 
philosophy. Ever in too great a hurry, this time she had 
rushed into a union that soon proved not so much union 
as bondage. 

That night of the feast, with the sound of the band, 
the wild jollity in her ears, the ferment of wine, and 
her senses dancing to the piping of her blood, straight he 


WHIRLWIND 


248 

had carried her off unresisting; and nauseating, obscene, 
had been the revelation of the man. 

She had had her experiences, but nothing so vile, no 
such unbridled passion, or lustful exhibition had come her 
way before. Unspeakable were the terms in which he 
showed himself. 

She speedily learned that he was nearly always in a 
condition bordering on the madness of drink. She was 
ashamed of him, ashamed of her association with him, 
humiliated at their ghastly orgies, but she cowed before 
him like a dog. She dared not defy that heavy jaw, 
that thick, black, crisp hair, those glistening, blood-shot 
eyes. 

He would strip her and make her stand naked before 
him. Then he would cover her with ropes of pearls, 
strings of diamonds, rubies. 

She despised him for the blatant vulgarity with which 
he squandered money, and Jessica suspected he was reck¬ 
lessly throwing away some quickly made fortune, yet 
with all her reputation the very horror of her position 
held something that appealed. 

By day sickened, revolted; by night yielding utterly, 
stunned by the sheer brutality of the man. Even while 
she loathed, she enjoyed the depth of degradation into 
which she had sunk. She had met her master and she 
liked being mastered. He would beat her, kick her, black 
her eyes for her and she took it all without a murmur. 

One night they supped late at a restaurant and some 
old friend of Jessica’s crossed the room and spoke to her. 
She had found it wise never to speak to any man when 
the Toreador was by. To-night she could not help her¬ 
self, and she knew she would have to pay. 

The Toreador sat glowering and drinking; then he 


WHIRLWIND 


249 


broke into the conversation and insisted on going home 
there and then. He raved in the car like a maniac and 
shook her till she could hardly see. Arrived home, he 
dragged her upstairs like a bundle of clothes. He ran so 
quickly that she fell. He dragged her to their room, 
kicked open the door, flung her down, and with hands 
and teeth, tore every flimsy rag oil the wretched, expostu¬ 
lating, terrified woman. 

He did not trouble to turn on the light. By the street 
light through the window Jessica dimly saw something 
animal, swarthy, twitching, with distended eyes, black 
hairy limbs, raining blows, making sounds in no language 
that she knew. Sick, sore, half dead she lay, the shreds 
and tatters of her draperies strewing the floor and a 
broken necklace scintillating like a miniature milky way 
across it. 

At last he got up, at last he had thrashed her enough, 
at last he got into the bed. From there he whistled as to 
his dog, and the woman writhed across the floor till she 
pulled herself up upon the bed beside him. 

The next day, all the long long day, stupid, dazed 
and stunned they lay, drugged as with opiates. The room 
wrecked, broken furniture, smashed mirrors and torn 
clothes, a pitiable exhibition, soulless and senseless; a 
laugh for devils but a cause for tears in Heaven. 

And yet he held her. Though every instinct rebelled, 
she was powerless to go. For the first time she had met 
her master. 

For the first time she knew what physical fear meant. 
To all men hitherto she had been a Queen, to this one 
man she was nothing but a body for his gratification. 

He vulgarised her and she knew it. She shuddered 
when he came near; she loathed him as a poisonous 


250 


WHIRLWIND 


reptile, an obscene beast to be hunted down and slaugh¬ 
tered ruthlessly, and yet she was fascinated while she was 
appalled. 

After two months the bonds snapped that held her. 
It was a very little mouse gnawed the net that bound the 
lion and you may think it a very little thing that freed 
Jessica from her mental tyranny. 

One day the Toreador threatened to break her violin 
over her head. 

Now Jessica’s fiddle was one of the few in the world 
to be called a violin. She had bought it years before and 
nearly beggared herself in the buying. Its pedigree was 
undoubted; every newspaper had heralded its advent into 
the market. It was practically irreplaceable. Ropes of 
pearls, diamond tiaras, rubies, emeralds, were on every 
hand, but no money in the world could buy what only 
once in a life-time stood up for sale. 

Suddenly a complete metamorphosis! An entire re¬ 
versal of their relations. How she cajoled, how she 
threatened, bribed, promised, was always a mystery and 
didn’t matter. What did matter was that at last the 
precious instrument was safe in her hands, and hidden 
securely. And as she laid the case in its place of safety, 
Jessica suddenly felt herself again. Something seemed 
to crack, and she was once more sane and capable of clear 
thought. 

“What was I sinking to?” she asked herself. “What in 
God’s name was I becoming?” 

And now, just as long ago in the little Battersea house, 
she had examined her face in the glass, so she passed it 
in review again. But with how different a result. 

“Good God! My skin looks yellow, my eyes bleary. 
Who would know me?” 


WHIRLWIND 


251 


Who indeed? Not even her own son could he have 
seen her then, and the thought of that fair-haired good- 
looking boy rose up before her, and with the thought 
Jessica bowed her head and wept. 

$.♦,*** 

She slipped away that afternoon. There was a frantic 
packing of clothes, a feverish ransacking of drawers and 
cupboards, and finally she found the key of the safe and 
rifled that. 

It was full of jewellery. There were plasters of em¬ 
eralds, diamonds, pearls, rubies, sapphires incongruously 
mixed together. Every single item was hideous; together 
worth more than one King’s ransom, for if the Toreador 
had execrable taste, Jessica knew his knowledge of gems 
was quite unapproachable. 

“He must have spent a fortune on gems,” said Jessica, 
gazing at the mass before her. “He can’t go on like 
this.” 

With which last remark we will leave her, while rapidly 
she swept the lot into an open bag, locked it securely, 
and with that in one hand and the fiddle in the other, 
descended to a taxi already laden with her trunks, 
gave the first address she thought of, and left that ex¬ 
perience behind her with a mind fully made up to for¬ 
get it. 

She was for ever deciding to forget something. She 
never saw an ugly sight without instinctively turning 
aside to look at something pleasant. But she determined 
not alone to forget the whole thing but to profit by the 
lesson also. 

Knowing our Jessica as we do, we may doubt whether 


252 


WHIRLWIND 


the lesson she had learnt was exactly the one Providence 
would have wished her to take to heart. 

But then the language of Heaven does not translate 
very well into the language of Earth, and even in the 
original the meaning is often somewhat obscure. 


XXI 


Amongst the many houses our young friend had rested 
the soles of her feet in from time to time was an old 
palazzo in Southern Italy. She had bought it long ago, 
falling in love with the romance of it, but it was long 
since she had been there, indeed, sometimes she forgot all 
about it. She remembered it now and made straight for 
it after her flight from the Toreador. There she could 
recuperate and recover her sanity of mind and body. 
She seemed to have gone through a series of tremendous 
hurricanes of late, and to need some quiet harbourage 
where she could rest, where too, perhaps, henceforth she 
might lead a dignified existence in pleasant and suitable 
surroundings under the warm Italian sun. 

“I am not so young and don’t want balls and orgies 
any more, I really believe I’ve reached the time when I 
want to settle down.” 

But, bless us! Surely we remember she has said that 
any time these—how many years ? 

Still, maybe something of zest had gone out of the 
old life. She was content now to hold her state and to 
receive artists, musicians, men of the world, and talk—and 
talk well—to each on his special subject. To be called 
“the most beautiful woman in the room” would, she 
thought, henceforth satisfy her ambition. 

So she determined to go easy in the future and devote 
herself more and more to the boy who was growing up 


253 


254 


WHIRLWIND 


and needed a home where he might bring his friends. 
And she found it remarkably pleasant to receive the re¬ 
spectful, friendly, greeting of her Italian chauffeur, to 
pass through her own woods and groves of orange and 
lemon trees. The nightmare of the last few months began 
fading into oblivion. Very soon it would appear as an 
experience that must have happened to somebody else. 
Very soon she would quite forget the Toreador and be 
her old, healthy self again. And how delightful! How 
convenient! What a blessing to be gifted with a mem¬ 
ory under such excellent control! 

If she began to take life more quietly now, it was be¬ 
cause she began to grow up. And if her appearance was 
almost miraculously youthful, well, it would be a pity if all 
that massage and all those beauty treatments had shown 
no result. 

“It is rather pleasant being Lady Bountiful,” Jessica 
commented with herself one day as she strolled about 
her garden. “Very nice to feel established. I wonder 
I have not been here oftener.” 

It is a pity you don’t know Landolfo. If you knew 
that delectable place you too might wonder why Jessica 
had not gone there oftener. 

High in the mountains it leaned over its own great 
hills and shouted to the sea, but sneered at the towns 
below, too lazy to climb up into the hills. 

The road that led to it must have come from some¬ 
where once, but by the time it reached Landolfo it had 
quite forgotten where that somewhere was. 

It was not what might be called in the centre of things. 
But it didn’t want to be in the centre of things; it hated 
the very idea, and just to avoid that sort of thing it had 
run away and hidden in the mountains. 


WHIRLWIND 


255 


So the road had some trouble in finding Landolfo and 
only got there after exceeding great difficulties. It was 
easy running by the sea. But when it came to winding 
up the mountains, well, there were ravines to jump and 
cataracts to avoid; (sometimes these came and washed 
you away and then there was a nice how-do-you-do), and 
the poor little road got very tired before it reached its 
journey’s end. 

But having decided to reach Landolfo, it made no bones 
about it, but ran on over bridges, through gorges, yet 
ever looking back to that beloved sea, that shimmering 
mirror spread to catch the sun and blind any who dared 
look therein. 

Now come the orchards and vineyard terraces, perched 
in inaccessible spots; formed with elaborate labour. Sure¬ 
ly a touch and they go hurtling to the sea. 

Who had sufficient pains to form them? Who hoped 
to turn rock into vine and gather figs from thorns? 
There they perch, tier upon tier, like a flock of green birds 
waiting for a sign, ere they spread their wings and fly 
away. 

And all this husbandry in the land of gaunt mountains; 
monuments of days when the earth was yet hot and fires 
burnt fiercely within her. These remains from upheavals, 
vomitings of fire, belchings of lava that yet again may 
mock the labour that wrought this little world of useful 
beauty. 

And little houses are there also, white, pink or yellow, 
each with its terraced patch (nobody could possibly reach 
them unless he flew), oh, ever so high up, on pinnacles 
and peaks; one would never be surprised to see them rise 
and fly away. 


256 


WHIRLWIND 


When last I visited Landolfo I walked there with an 
artist friend. My thoughts centred on a shady seat and 
a drink. But I had been there before and the other man 
had not and he felt no desire to sit in the shade and drink, 
he preferred to enthuse over the red tiled houses that 
crawled over each other like children playing together on 
the floor. 

I hoped to call him to reason by pointing out the Cathe¬ 
dral. I trusted the sight of that mutilated fragment might 
cool his ardour, but I forgot the great bronze doors. 

“Magnificent, magnificent!” he cried. “And yonder is 
the belfry. By jove, that anyway is hardly touched.” 

And it was magnificent;—and sleepy, and dazzling. 
An occasional fig tree falling over a staring wall, or 
else perhaps a vine went rambling, and in the piazza the 
sun lay white, panting and alone. Later on it would get up 
and crawl away, leaving Landolfo to the night breezes 
that climbed the valley softly, coming by the chest¬ 
nut woods and orange groves. 

Jessica’s palazzo lay behind a grey wall and snuggled 
in a mass of green. In Italy’s mediaeval days it had 
played a great part; now it was of quite moderate size 
nor of any architectural merit. Its sole interest lay in its 
romantic history and its position, which was, and must 
ever remain, without compare. 

However, the old square entrance tower yet stood 
lovely with spiral columns. And one other lofty tower in 
the garden to remind us of the past. 

And through the entrance tower and down the short, 
broad walk, where palms and ferns crowded into such 
welcome shade, we reached the little oblong cortile where 
above stone and biick course rose the slender double col¬ 
umns of white marble. 


WHIRLWIND 


257 


And what a place it must have been. Unique in Italy, 
it is still a glory. But mutilated, mutilated, dear friends, 
to make kitchens! 

Jessica had often longed to carry out a full restoration, 
but could not discover an architect with sufficient know¬ 
ledge to be trusted. But, after all, it was the garden and 
the views that really mattered. 

Out from the shade of the Belvedere one looked into 
a world enchanted by the sun, out far to sea, out far be¬ 
yond the little towns, that nestled and cuddled each other 
two thousand feet below, out beyond the domed towers 
of the Annunziata, out to where the blue sea lay clear as 
the eyes of youth, glinting in the golden light that fell 
glittering down. 

Surely even from that high place we could count the 
pebbles at the bottom of that miraculous sea, where only 
crystal vessels, with silken sails full set, and sweet voiced 
ladies singing, have a right to go. Out we gazed, and 
strove to pierce the hazy witchery of light in search for 
that old land beyond where legends said that mighty 
ruins of great temples lay. There in that unknown coun¬ 
try altars lay cast down and columns prone. Grass grew 
where sacrifices burned; and where the priest once thun¬ 
dered maledictions on a multitude, that trembled at the 
interpretation of the God’s, slim lizards ran their busy 
way. 

But round about us flowers and green shade, moss and 
fern contending, ordered disorder and sweet disarray, a 
gentle rioting, and clear water trickling over stony ways. 

* * * * * 

The pleasant old gardener padded his barefooted way 
along sandy paths, down long flights of steps to the lower 


258 


WHIRLWIND 


garden. A pleasant old gentleman, as gardeners should 
be; proud too of his work and with very legitimate right. 

“Does the Signora spend much time here?” my friend 
asked. 

“She is usually here for the young Signore’s holidays!” 

And then he proceeded to tell us little stories of how 
Jessica and her boy went every day to swim, motoring 
there and back in time for lunch. 

“The Signora rises early as an Italian. After colla- 
zione she and the young Signore spend always the morn¬ 
ing together. She is very beautiful, our Signora, but will 
you not visit the lower gardens? There are two ways. 
Let us go by one and return by the other.” 

And down we went, leaving the prodigal roses that 
rushed up marble columns, and waved their hands from 
thence to their more timid kind below. 

Fountains and pergolas, paved with blocks of marble. 
Lilies, violets, ran along the sides, lemons hanging amid 
thick leaves overhead, while the sun, filtering through, 
fretted a purple pattern on the sightless floor. 

Beautiful! beautiful old place. With feet planted in 
the sea, and Heaven for your crown, set about with 
loveliness; not the least lovely in this land of lovely 
gardens. 

And just as for the hundredth time we turned for one 
more look our guide hastily drew aside down a side path 
and so round by a back way to the entrance gate; for 
he had caught sight of a lady coming towards us and 
whose presence he had clearly not expected. 

But we had seen a vision too, and of a tall, slim figure 
all in white and carrying a large parasol that shielded a 
head crowned with very lovely chestnut hair. I confess 
to having looked back once. It was the first time I had 


WHIRLWIND 


259 


seen Jessica and I remember I wondered then what voice 
would pass those lips if she might speak. 

So once more we found ourselves in the little cortile, 
very exquisite, and a little tropical. Without, thick dust 
and heat almost insupportable; within, cool trees spread 
their shade, fountains fed the air, and in place of dusty 
roads, broad terraces of marble. 

“I hope my gardener has not hurried you?” 

A voice behind us. A voice, soft, with a kiss in it. 

We mumbled some apology for our lengthy stay and 
acknowledged her kindness in allowing visitors into her 
garden. 

“I am always glad to let anyone in who really loves 
flowers. You are fond of gardens? Understand them?” 

As she spoke she glanced from one to the other, smiling 
without favour, yet each of us took the speech unto him¬ 
self. 

“Yes, we understand gardens, and notice many plants 
very rare in Europe. They must have been brought here 
specially ?” 

“That is so. It is, of course, quite a little place. But 
is that any reason why it should not be as perfect as it 
can be?” 

With all our eyes held by the vision in white, we em¬ 
phatically assured the lady that all was most perfect. 
She smiled again. Did she guess that we referred more 
to herself than to the garden? 

“I should have liked to have restored the house,” she 
added, gazing up at a bit of wall partially glimpsed 
through wdsteria. 

“It is very well as it is, is it not?” 

“It passes.” Then, having had enough of our society, 
she looked on us again and dismissed us gracefully. 


260 WHIRLWIND 

“You’re sure you saw everything? Guiseppe sometimes 
hustles, I’m afraid.” 

She cast a funny little look at the old fellow, who we 
were sure under no possible circumstances could be ac¬ 
cused of hustling. 

“Not at all, and we are delighted to have had this op¬ 
portunity of seeing so much beauty.” 

It was not I, but the other man said that. He flattered 
himself he had a flair for turning a neat compliment. I 
thought him rather an ass myself. 

Did she catch his meaning? Was there the least little 
gleam in her eye ? The least little quiver to her lip ? 

Chi lo sa? She had done with us. She gave us a 
charming little nod, and set us going down the avenue; 
herself, no doubt, instantly forgetting what manner of 
men we were. 

And only a few weeks ago, this stately, thorough-bred 
lady, so “grande dame” in every line, in every movement, 
and in every tone of her voice, had lain stiff and sore, 
black and blue on her half wrecked bed open to the lust 
of a semi-lunatic. 

How can we reconcile the two creatures? Let him 
who first said “Every woman is at heart a rake,” an¬ 
swer the question. 

But whited sepulchres are not confined to Palestine and 
lilies can grow upon a dung heap. 

* * * * * 

Very soon a young fellow came whistling through the 
gardens. Quite an ordinary young fellow according to 
English standards. He was a type. Blue eyed, fair 
haired, clad in immaculate whites, with sleeves rolled up 
above the elbow and collar open a little at the throat. He 


WHIRLWIND 


261 


had been down to bathe and the walk up, even at this 
hour, had been extraordinarily hot. Yes, quite an ordi¬ 
nary type, but he had a certain air of distinction, and 
there was a certain charm about him that he must surely 
inherit from his mother. 

“Hungry, dear boy?” 

“Very.” Had a topping swim though. I can dive as 
well as Pepino now.” 

“But you will be careful. Pepino is older than you 
and a Landolfano. They are born half fish, I think.” 

“Well, Pm getting on. My muscles grow bigger every 
day.” 

Pepino was the boy’s own particular attendant and 
adored his master; and, being Italian, was not only a good 
all round servant, but considered himself a sort of rela¬ 
tion. He had no idea of not being always in this mas¬ 
ter’s employ. Had he not taught the Signore all he knew 
about horses, guns, boats, swimming, all that really 
mattered ? 

So in that pleasant way days slipped to weeks, and one 
day the fond mother had to see her boy off to school 
again. There was no tearful leave taking. The boy was 
happy at his school and went off cheerily, while she, well, 
she only sought his happiness and was well content so 
be he found it. 

But she looked to a day when school and college would 
be over, when he would take up some profession that 
would not keep him too long from home. 

“I must find him something. He has no particular 
bent. He is just a dear, fresh, jolly boy.” 

And, indeed, she had kept him unspotted from her 
world, had clung to his love, and valued his respect above 
all things. Thus passed her days, autumn grew old and 


262 


WHIRLWIND 


yet the same sun blazed; and there was the same blue sky, 
the same profusion in the garden, only now the plants 
gathered a little towards each other, and grew a little 
tired and wearied with their own profusion. 

And for once Satan found nothing for idle hands to 
do. Possibly he considered she had worked enough for 
the time being. And then one day Jessica read in her 
paper the first announcement of a musical festival to be 
held in the city of X. 

The festival was in honour of a great composer’s cen¬ 
tenary; and would take the form of a series of orchestral 
concerts, each under the leadership of one of the greatest 
conductors of the day. Many eminent artists were en¬ 
gaged. Nor would these performances be hastily organ¬ 
ised, but thoroughly and systematically rehearsed well 
ahead of the festival itself. 

Jessica put down her paper and considered of these 
concerts. She had not heard any good music for months. 
Why not run over to X., stay for the festival and return 
to Landolfo afterwards? 

“I’ve quite determined to cut the old life,” she said to 
herself. I’m going to settle down and keep a few friends 
who’ll be useful to the boy. There can be no harm in 
going to the festival. Quite the contrary. Music is said 
to elevate the mind.” 

So Jessica took tickets for the series and engaged a 
suite of rooms at the “Magnificent,” and in due time 
found herself sitting enthralled concert after concert, 
feasted as she had not been feasted for long. 

But she was far too distinguished and beautiful to re¬ 
main unnoticed. Many questions were asked and she 
almost threatened to become an integral part of the fes¬ 
tival. 


WHIRLWIND 


263 


Now amongst the many amateurs whose word carried 
weight, even with the eminent professionals, was the old 
Prince of Thrace. Not that he was so very old, but his 
hair was white, and he stooped a little. But then he was 
very tall, and tall people frequently do stoop. He had a 
most excellent appearance. One to be inquired after if you 
were so ignorant as not to know him; one to be imitated 
if you were so fortunate as to be able. 

From the first he had noticed Jessica, and one day he 
asked a mutual acquaintance to present him to her. Jes¬ 
sica of course knew him well by sight and reputation, as, 
indeed, he also had known of her, and when the hand¬ 
some old man stood bowing before her, I think even she 
felt a little thrill of pride at this fresh feather in her cap. 
She had known other princes; had once even attracted 
the attention of a crowned head. They had all proved 
much as other men with the same vices and virtues, if 
any. But the Prince of Thrace was pre-eminently an 
aristocrat in mind and she was flattered that so fastidious 
a patrician should seek to know her. 

The acquaintance, begun in a concert hall, naturally 
started out on the subject of music. The Prince sug¬ 
gested they should meet at supper after the concert when 
some of the performers would be joining them. Jessica 
consented and proved by no means the least musically 
intelligent in that intelligent company. 

The friendship rapidly ripened. The Prince found her 
a most interesting companion, which he had not expected, 
while she appreciated the deep respect with which he 
always treated her. After the Festival he persuaded her to 
go to the Riviera. She lived there very quietly, but the 
Prince was so constantly with her, that people began to 
talk ? and Jessica returned to Landolfo, 


264 


WHIRLWIND 


There he visited her and was charmed with the place 
and the well-bred hospitality he met. I don’t know what 
his relations may have been with his hostess. I am in¬ 
clined to think purely platonic. 

There was even a rumour at one time of their mar¬ 
riage, but I don’t think that entered into either of their 
calculations. He proved, however, the best of friends 
and helped Jessica most efficiently in the matter of her 
boy. 

“He is a charming fellow, your son,” said the Prince. 
“I like his frank manner, he has breeding and courtesy, 
somewhat rare qualities I fear nowadays.” And when 
she heard this praise Jessica felt she had not striven in 
vain. And the old courtier had meant it. He had been 
surprised at the boy’s pleasant ease and good manners. 
Indeed, the more he saw of that house the more sur¬ 
prised he grew and by so much the more did he appre¬ 
ciate the mother. 

He found them an extraordinarily interesting couple. 
They provided a problem to which, wise old man that 
he was, he could see no solution. 

“She has kept him quite apart. He knows nothing of 
her life but what she has chosen to tell. But what can the 
future hold? I wonder if she can really pull it off?” 

So he would think as he sat smoking lazily and watched 
the tall, slim youth gaily chaffing the extraordinarily 
youthful mother over yonder by the Belvedere. 

“She hasn’t changed since I first saw her,” continued 
the old gentleman, “she never will, much. What an or¬ 
nament she would have been to any rank in society. She 
could have filled any position you like to name. And 
there’s no house so pleasant to stay in as this, and no one 
whose society I prefer to my hostess’s.” 


WHIRLWIND 


265 

Yet he ended his thoughts with another sigh, and he 
murmured “Poor woman.” 

Perhaps he had expected an exciting denouement shortly 
and that accounted for his interest in mother and son. 
If so, I m sure he would have been the first to regret it; 
but as a matter of fact, the years slipped quietly by with¬ 
out anything happening. 

And still she looked absurdly young to have a lad of 
twenty-one. But Jessica never acknowledged old age. 
She regarded it as a germ it was quite unnecessary to 
catch provided one took proper care. 

Consequently, old age had no terrors for her, and 
consequently, when it should have come and knocked at 
her door, it merely paused at her garden gate; bowed, and 
passed on. 


XXII 


Apologies are always out of place, and especially when 
insincere, therefore I make none because that dear mobile 
Jessica of ours has taken so much of our time, and the 
progress of that child’s pilgrimage occupied our attention 
almost to the exclusion of the real story. 

Yet other folk have a claim upon our interest. But as 
these have not yet touched Jessica’s life they have dropped 
somewhat into the background. But we must attend to 
tthem now, for we have arrived at the epoch when we 
'left Aylmer Forsyth hopelessly in love with Katie 
Dalison, and when Desmond’s old friend had gone up to 
;town to see what could be done regarding a divorce. 

In fact, we have arrived at the very beginning of our 
story, and a breathless chase it has been to overtake it. 

I hope you have not forgotten Augusta, Lady Alabur- 
ton, or Her Grace of Hampshire, pretty Miss Kate, or 
pleasant young Aldershot? Because here they all are 
journeying down together for Goodwood races, with neat 
and expensive-looking luggage, three maids, and one man, 
who looks much more the belted earl than his master. 

The dowdy little person with the birdlike face, who 
walks down the platform to the reserved carriage as 
though she were a queen on her way to her coronation, 
and gives to the guard and the porters and the news¬ 
paper boys and the maids, and her niece, the look of her 
attendants, and even to Augusta, Lady Alaburton, the 
£66 



WHIRLWIND 267 

appearance of a mistress of the robes—that little person is 
the great, the only, Duchess of Hampshire. 

She didn’t show many of the Vere de Vere character¬ 
istics, except that “repose” which one and all of them 
strove to emulate ever since the days of Lady Clara. 

Augusta accompanied the Duchess because she was go¬ 
ing to stay with Her Grace, and Katie was there because 
she was going home. And Jim was there because it was 
pleasant to travel with Katie. Finally they were all there 
because the season was over and “nobody was there, 
you know.” 

So the guard had smirked, and Her Grace had smiled, 
Augusta stared, and Katie nodded, while Jim’s man did 
the tipping. When Lady Alaburton had settled in her 
corner, and the little Duchess was enthroned in hers, 
Augusta smiled at the passing landscape as though she 
were at a private view, and had to say something polite 
about the pictures. 

“How delightful the country is,” babbled Augusta. 

She was the sort of female who, on arriving at a 
country house, gurgled to her hostess over “the delicious¬ 
ness of the park,” and then asked about the trains to 
town. 

“Your gardens must be in perfection,” she continued. 
Vaguely it came to her that Templeton was famous for 
something, and Templeton being in the country she sup¬ 
posed it must be gardens. 

The Duchess smiled, and dropped a few words side¬ 
ways. “We stay about six weeks, I think. Then His 
Grace goes to Scotland.” 

“Scotland’s delightful when the shooting begins,” mur¬ 
mured Lady Alaburton. 

And here the conversation threatened to flag. 


268 


WHIRLWIND 


As Augusta had taken the trouble to mention the land¬ 
scape, Her Grace had a look at it herself. She seemed 
agreeably surprised at what she saw, and said she had 
thought nature more limited. 

Then Augusta, who considered the landscape had re¬ 
ceived sufficient attention for one day, plunged into more 
congenial matters, with the air of one who, having done 
her duty, might now act as inclination prompted. 

“The Soames haven’t brought that match off. I sup¬ 
pose they can’t give the girl enough money. It would 
be splendid for her. If Ilkley doesn’t marry John would 
succeed, or anyway his boy be Lord Sheffield one day.” 

“I don’t suppose Lord Ilkley will marry,” murmured * 
the Duchess, faintly interested. 

“Oh no—half mad and over fifty—that is, half the 
time you know, the rest of ’em are sane enough. No 
nonsense about John. Great pity! Such an old family!” 

But whether it was a great pity that Lord John was 
not as mad as his elder brother, or what, the Duchess had 
no time to discover, for Augusta took up her parable and 
proceeded on her way. 

“Soames’ girl’s quite nice. You don’t know them? Oh, 
you should! New, you know, new, very new, but pleas¬ 
ant. I don’t know where they picked it all up. But 
people do nowadays. Quite different before the war. 
Mrs. Soames is very charming,” she added in a softer 
voice, recollecting many good meals at that lady’s house. 

“Have you heard where they come from?” 

“Oh no. What does it matter? I was nice to the girl. 
Called her Sonia. Means nothing, and sounds friendly; 
one never knows whom that sort of girl may marry. They 
say Mrs. Soames objects because of Ilkley . . . Lord 
John’s debts? Thousands, aren’t they? Yes, so they 


WHIRLWIND 


269 


say! Well, they can’t expect the girl to marry into a 
family like the Steleknyves without paying for it. But 
these new people are so particular. After all, it’s rather 
clever of them. Makes them a sort of exclusive set of 
their own, you know. Wonder how they found out their 
worth ? Really very clever!” 

And lost in admiration, Lady Alaburton fell into silent 
contemplation of the cleverness “of those sort of people.” 

Meantime Katie and her cavalier were getting on very 
well, so well indeed that Jim began to fear she “really 
liked” him, and nothing more. Still he plodded his way in 
the modem manner of love-making, and talked of nothing 
even remotely connected with love. 

He was going to a certain big country house in the 
neighbourhood of Goodwood, and he soon got busy over 
the various entries for the Cup. 

“Back Ozone for a place. He’s safe for that, but Lol- 
lypop is going to win.” 

“What about Belphegor ?” 

“Not got an earthly. Bet you six to one Lollypop 
wins.” 

“Right. Gloves if I win! Same size as usual.” 

“Ten’s or two’s?” 

“Guess.” 

From racing to hunting was an easy step and Jim tried 
hard to persuade Katie to do a little hunting in his own 
country. 

So they talked and entertained each other till they ar¬ 
rived at the parting of the ways; and the maids bustled; 
and Jim’s man hustled; smart footmen hurried up, the 
guard was obsequious, the station master deferential, the 
porters humble, and the engine driver faint from excite¬ 
ment ! 



270 


WHIRLWIND 


Oh! It’s a lovely thing to be a member of the British 
aristocracy after all! Especially if you belong to the gen¬ 
uine brand! 

As Katie spun homeward and sniffed the warm, pun¬ 
gent smell of hay, and saw the dog-roses rambling through 
the hedge, and the great friendly cattle grazing and 
munching, much like old toothless Jessop at his door, 
who touched his hat as the car passed, Katie may well 
have wondered if “it didn’t take a lot of beating.” 

There were the downs, and there the low, flat land, and 
there the river went, meandering to the sea, and with no 
particular desire to take the nearest way. 

A different land this to that about Landolfo! Pastures 
for vineyards wrested from the rock. Well-watered 
meadows for the torrent no one used. Cattle standing in 
kingcups, and suggesting thick cream and yellow butter, 
for one occasional cow kept in her pen and never seen. 
A land of order for a country that is more or less a land 
of odds and ends. 

As Katie’s car went slowly over the bridge, whose 
monkish builders would certainly have regarded such a 
conveyance as a chariot of fire but of Satanic origin, she 
could hear the peacocks calling in the manor gardens, 
and the rooks cawing and cawing, and she could see them 
whirling around and about, expostulating, directing ha¬ 
ranguing, arguing. 

Up the hill and in at the lodge gate, down the short 
avenue, across the moat and so into the forecourt where 
all the sun seemed to be wandering about, and all the 
roses in the world to grow, and all the white pigeons to 
strut up and down. 

I would not thank you for the Lord Lieutenant’s great 
big nineteenth century palace for all its Rubens and Van 


WHIRLWIND 


271 


Dycks. Indeed, Lad I my choice, I should prefer Ford- 
combe even to the ducal castle set on a hill, amidst oaks 
and hanging woods, and very regal and incomparable it is. 

“Aunt Margaret, you darling! How glad I am to be 
home again,” cried Katie to that lady who came out to 
meet her. 

A smile and word to the butler, and Katie went into 
the wide, high old oaken hall. Oh, that high old oaken 
hall! Rich with Elizabethan furnishing, great blue and 
white china, and sweet with the ashes of wood fires! 
How very beautiful it was, and how excellent the great 
carved stairway that showed through the door at the fur¬ 
ther end. 

* * * * * 

Now, before Miss Katie had been home three weeks, 
she realised that things were happening that called for a 
considerable amount of tact on her part. 

Though Goodwood had come and gone, Aldershot had 
not gone with it, and the most guileless could not fail to 
see the magnet that attracted him. Margaret saw it, and 
Ralph saw it also when his sister pointed it out to him. 

The Duchess herself motored over and pointed the 
moral. She was followed by Augusta, who fairly stared 
it out of countenance. She hunted the squire even to his 
private sanctum. 

Having prostrated the brother, the intrepid female pro¬ 
ceeded to lay Margaret low, and right nobly she suc¬ 
ceeded. 

“I’m sure Augusta meant well.” 

“Because she’s embraced our religion she needn’t em¬ 
brace our private affairs too,” growled Ralph, when he 
and Margaret compared notes later on. 


272 


WHIRLWIND 


Margaret would have let matters rest, but the squire 
had been waiting to let off steam, and now let it rip. 

“According to those two old women, half the young 
men in England want to marry my daughter, a mere 
child.” 

“She’s grown up, dear.” 

“So are we. But we don’t think of marrying, I hope.” 

But at that remark a little colour came into Margaret’s 
face. If she never allowed herself to think of marriage 
she could not deny that some thought very like unto it 
sometimes crossed her mind. 

She had her woman’s instincts; above all, her woman’s 
intuition, and she would have been less than woman and 
more than human had she not sensed the betrayal of Des¬ 
mond’s heart. 

But it is not with the aunt and her delicate reticence we 
are just now concerned, but with the niece, whose meth¬ 
ods are more direct and whose modernity has no use for 
silence when speech is golden. 

One morning she invaded her father’s room during the 
prohibited hours of ten to twelve. It was a legend that 
for those two hours the squire retired to the room on 
business purposes intent, and was on no account to be 
disturbed. 

That day his chief business seemed to be to glance at 
“The Field,” and read therein the merits of a new patent 
food for cattle. 

His nose was somewhat in the air and his mouth what 
is termed “pursy.” The squire had not much faith in 
these new foods. He put down the paper, relighted his 
pipe, and opened his memorandum book. And therein 
he found an entry “to go and see the estate carpenter 
about mending the little wooden brige across the river.” 



WHIRLWIND 


273 


(You haven’t forgotten the little wooden foot-bridge that 
made a quick cut between the Manor and Aylmer’s 
cottage ?) 

“Dear, dear! How could I forget. The river’s very 
deep there. It must be seen to at once.” 

He was genuinely annoyed at his own remissness, and 
when Katie came and announced “Sir Desmond was 
spending the week-end at the cottage, Father, and Aylmer 
would like us to go to supper on Saturday,” the old gen¬ 
tleman was quite off his guard and forgot why it was that 
the cottage had been tacitly considered of late to be as it 
were “out of bounds.” 

“Saturday! Saturday!” he muttered. “Aren’t we do¬ 
ing something on Saturday? Have you spoken to your 
aunt?” 

Katie had not spoken to her aunt. She, too, had an 
idea, born, perhaps, of a guilty conscience, that the cot¬ 
tage was “out of bounds,” and she had her own ideas 
as to the best method of removing the interdict. 

“Darling, your pipe’s gone out, and it’s very bad for 
you to suck an unlighted pipe.” 

“Bless me, so it is! There’s something wrong about this 
pipe. It never draws properly!” 

“Try again, dad,” his dutiful daughter suggested, and 
held up a lighted match. 

The squire commenced making sucking noises that were 
peculiar to himself, and during this operation (it lasted 
fully two minutes) clouds of tobacco smoke filled the 
room. 

“Let me see!” he said. “Saturday! What are we do¬ 
ing on Saturday ?” 

“Nothing, I think. Sir Desmond’s really coming down 
on business. That’s why he’s going to Aylmer’s instead 


WHIRLWIND 


274 

of coming heffl. He feels more independent at the cot¬ 
tage.” 

“Independent! Independent!” the squire exclaimed, 
pishing and pshawing. “What does he mean? He could 
have this room. He’d be quite independent.” 

Katie gazed at the welter of disorder on her father’s 
table, and, remembering the constant entries of herself 
and Margaret (despite the legend), and how very lonely 
her father would feel if they really lived up to the “busi¬ 
ness’” theory, thought Sir Desmond would be less dis- 
turbed at the cottage. 

“I expect he likes to be quite by himself, father. I 
liear the croquet lawn is in splendid condition,” she added 
carelessly. 

Now Ralph’s passion for croquet almost amounted to 
sin. It was also a theory of his that Aylmer’s lawn was 
always in better condition than his own. 

“Well! Well! Everybody’s lawn seems better than 
ours. I only hope it will be a fine day.” 

Katie thought it best to accept this somewhat nebulous 
reply as an affirmative, and went in pursuit of her aunt. 

She found Margaret in the garden, throwing grain to 
the already over-fed and pampered fowl. 

Katie knew that Aunt Margaret might not be quite so 
easy to manage as the dear old man who always fell so 
ready a victim that after she got her own way his daughter 
always felt she ought to go and tell him what she’d done. 

Still Aunt Margaret didn’t present any really serious 
difficulty. A little coaxing, a little diplomacy, and the 
“awful deed” would be done. 

“I met Aylmer in the village just now. He wants us 
to go to tea on Saturday. I said we would. We’re not 
doing anything, are we?” 


WHIRLWIND 


275 


Now Margaret, while distributing largesse to peacocks 
and pigeons, was also trying to stifle the voice of Augusta 
that cried loudly within her. It was therefore a little 
untoward to have the young man’s existence thrust sud¬ 
denly upon her notice. 

“Tea, my dear?” she murmured, in an effort to gain 
time. 

“Yes, and supper afterwards, like we used to do. Sir 
Desmond’s coming. Sort of picnic, you know.” 

“Have you asked your father ?” 

I spoke to dad. He wants to go. He told me to speak 
to you.” 

A gleam of mischief shone in Katie’s eye. She knew 
exactly what agitated these two darling people. 

“I’ve heard nothing about it.” 

^ “He’s going to write, of course,” Katie put in hastily. 
“But as we happened to meet he asked me, and I said I 
thought we’d nothing on.” 

What could Margaret do? She knew they had no en¬ 
gagement and she knew that Katie knew they hadn’t. 

“I don’t think there’s anything for Saturday-” be¬ 

gan Margaret, and was going to make some hesitating 
excuse when her niece clinched the matter by slipping her 
arm into her aunt s and marching her off to another part 
of the garden. 

“Then that’s all right. Let’s go and talk to Crockford. 
He’s shaving the upper terrace till the poor thing’s nearly 
bald.” 

At luncheon the girl managed to hint that it was a 
long time since Aylmer had been asked up to the house, 
and did the authorities think such behaviour quite kind ? 
What would Sir Desmond say when he came down on 
Thursday, and found any coolness ? 





276 WHIRLWIND 

“Coolness! My dear child!” father and aunt exclaimed 
together. 

Well, then, what had Aylmer done ? He was quite hurt, 
and felt he must have offended them somehow. 

“Oh no, my dear. How could he think so?” Surely 
Katie had misunderstood. 

Well, perhaps he had not said that, but Katie was very 
glad they would go on Saturday. Very glad of the acci¬ 
dental meeting that morning and of the chance to put 
things right. 

The authorities felt that somehow they had done wrong. 
The kindest of people, not for worlds would they hurt the 
feelings of the least among their acquaintance. 

Margaret thought she had listened too intently to Au¬ 
gusta, and before she drove out that afternoon she sent 
a very affectionate little note in answer to Aylmer’s invi¬ 
tation. 

Ralph merely “pished.” He felt that somehow he 
had been “managed,” how, he couldn’t tell. But he felt 
it. He rather suspected Katie, she looked so preternatu- 
rally good. 

He began to realise his daughter was grown up. He 
almost wished she would marry. If this sort of thing 
was the result of her growth, then the sooner somebody 
else was responsible for her the better. 

The meeting that morning between Katie and Aylmer 
had not been altogether the unexpected encounter the au¬ 
thorities had been led to imagine. I’m afraid Miss Katie 
had been up to her tricks! To be accurate, they need not 
have met at all. But Katie chanced to pass Mrs. Corner’s 
cottage, and thus to see, sitting outside in a state of abject 
boredom, Aylmer’s bulldog, who rejoiced in the name of 
Freddy. 


WHIRLWIND 


277 


Now if Freddy worshipped his master he adored Katie. 
Directly he caught sight of her, which was not imme¬ 
diately, he began a series of contortions which would 
have done credit to a professional acrobat. Silent, like all 
his kind, he advanced to his deity, wriggling and twisting 
his ungainly body, snuffling and, I’m afraid, slobbering, 
while smiles wreathed his wrinkled face, that shone with 
affection that can only be described as disgustingly senti¬ 
mental. 

Now Miss Katie opined that if the dog was outside the 
master was probably inside. And being always ready 
for a chat with Mrs. Corner, what more natural than to 
go in and have one now ? 

“So you’ve come back, miss,” said Mrs. Corner, in a 
voice that suggested extreme regret. 

“We can’t spare Miss Katie for so long a time again, 
can we, Mrs. Corner?” 

The lady looked from one to the other without a smile 
or any visible sign of intelligence. But then she had 
never been known to smile or to show much intelligence 
either. 

“I expect you enjoyed yourself in London, miss. People 
usually do, I believe. I once stayed with Corner’s sister 
at Tghgate. There seemed a great deal of noise. Didn’t 
you find it very noisy, miss ?” 

“Not so very. But Lennox Gardens is quiet on the 
whole.” 

“Indeed! I daresay. I don’t know that part.” 

And Mrs. Corner hugged her folded arms closer to her 
side, and drew dignity, as a mantle, about her. Thus she 
conveyed the impression that any part of town she didn’t 
know must be a region considerably off the map. Her 
Grace of Hampshire couldn’t have done it better. 


WHIRLWIND 


278 

“But you’ve been very gay down here too. They tell 
me the flower-show was a great success.” 

“I daresay, miss. I couldn’t go. Oh yes, the shop was 
shut—it being ’oliday. But I ’ad an ’eadache so stayed 
at ome.” 

“I’m afraid your headaches don’t get any better,” said 
Aylmer. 

“I can’t say as they do, sir,” Mrs. Corner answered, 
unbending somewhat from her Junoesque majesty. “In¬ 
deed, they gets more frequent and constant. I only sleep 
in a chair with six pillowses and a bonnet box.’’ 

“What! Don’t you go to bed at all ?” asked Katie. 

“I couldn’t do it, miss,” rejoined the invalid, much as 
though she considered going to bed was an act of inde¬ 
cency. “What might you be requiring?” she continued, 
in a tired voice very like the Duchess’s. 

“A few stamps, if you please,” answered Katie. 

“And how many could you do with to-day?” 

“I think six will be enough this morning.” 

Mrs. Corner hesitated for a moment, and appeared to 
be calculating whether she had that amount on hand. 

“Ordinary stamps?” she queried, “or stamps for 
abroad?”—a vague place she believed mostly inhabited 
by heathen. 

“Quite ordinary, please,” replied Katie gravely. 

Mrs. Corner thereupon climbed the steep little stairs that 
led from her shop to the upper regions from whence soon 
came sounds of infant expostulations. 

“Good heavens! Is the baby playing with the stamps ?” 
exclaimed Aylmer. 

“If he is I’m sure he’s only allowed to have the quite 
ordinary ones.” 

“He doesn’t seem to want to give them up,” Aylmer 


WHIRLWIND 


279 

replied, as fresh screams and yells uprose. “Your letters 
will have to wait, I expect.” 

“I think she’s moving the plate chest now,” suggested 
Katie when, after a moment’s silence a sound as of the 
dragging of a ponderous something, which might be a 
double bed or a super-innovation trunk from the noise 
created, vibrated overhead and then ceased. 

“Silence! Ah, what has happened now ?” cried Aylmer, 
dramatically. 

“She’s counting the stamps. I hope she won’t return 
with one short.” 

A minute or so and Mrs. Corner came down, having 
made no mistake. 

“Why do you keep the stamps upstairs? It must be 
such trouble going up for just one or two.” 

“No, sir. People don’t seem to want them very often 
now,” was the reply, rather as if stamps were better made 
than they used to be and therefore did not require renew¬ 
ing so often. “And I think they goes mostly to Stilbor- 
ough. When I undertook to act as postmistress,” she 
continued in a way that implied she had only taken the 
post from purely patriotic motives and at the earnest 
personal request of the Prime Minister himself, “I asked 
the Postmaster-General where he thought I’d better keep 
the stamps for safety, and he suggested somewhere in a 
box upstairs.” 

The good soul was not altogether romancing. She had 
written to the postmaster in the county town; and some 
facetious clerk had suggested that “under the bed would 
probably be a place secure from burglars.” And in a 
large tin box, and under Mrs. Corner’s bed generation 
after generation of stamps were put to rest. 

Katie went out of her way to be as charming a com- 


280 


WHIRLWIND 


panion as she could that morning, and succeeded to 
admiration. 

Somehow or another she and Aylmer seemed to have 
drifted apart lately. She couldn’t explain how it had hap¬ 
pened, but the old intimacy and comradeship had fallen on 
evil days and gone lame, and now she was surprised to 
find what a pleasant fellow Aylmer was, and not only 
amusing but interesting, and the boy, as he walked along 
the white dusty road beside her, realised once again that 
no other girl could ever be quite the same to him. 

But, if those two thought all the world was May, they 
were followed by a bulldog who saw no beauty anywhere 
but panted and snorted for desire of the cool grass and 
drinking trough in his comfortable home. 

That grass, also cool and soft to the feet, likewise 
grew by the roadside, was unnoticed by Freddy. He 
could only take in one idea at a time and the idea that 
dominated his mind that moment was, that come what 
might, he must follow his master wherever he went. 

So he padded along close to Aylmer’s heels, superbly 
oblivious to the pleasant little pools and puddles over 
against the hedge that a terrier would have pounced upon 
at once as sent by Heaven for the quenching of canine 
thirst. 


XXIII 


That afternoon Ralph went down to the carpenter’s 
yard. It was not a great way but it took him some time. 
He met Tomkins of Crossways and had a chat with 
him, then he saw Peters of Gabriels and delayed a bit to 
talk about the coming cattle show at Windhurst. 

And whom should he meet after that but his head 
keeper. With him he turned back because the poor man 
was mightily disturbed over the deprivations of foxes 
and had to be appeased. Foxes were sacred at Fordcombe, 
as once were cats in ancient Egypt. The Squire promised 
to write to the M.F.H., and when he had soothed his 
keeper he made yet another fresh start. 

At length the yard was reached and there in front of 
him lay all the sawn trees, and those yet waiting their 
further undoing. 

The Squire sniffed the fresh gummy odour and rather 
enjoyed it, and as he stepped over planks and brushed 
aside shavings (he had been asked to “step this way and 
see a hit of wood just right for that there old bridge”), 
he felt quite knowledgeable, and stroked his chin and 
agreed with the carpenter “that there bit of wood was just 
right for that there old bridge” and would do nicely. 

And mean time what was Katie doing ? 

I suppose if she had lived sixty years ago she would 
have spent her afternoon in doing a little embroidery, 
or in practising her music. I suppose a well brought up 

m 


282 


WHIRLWIND 


young lady never went a walk alone in those days? But 
being what she was and born, well, when she was, she 
carried her golf clubs into the park and set out for a 
steady round. 

And a considerable portion of time had passed when 
she noticed a tall loosely knit figure coming towards her 
from the gardens. 

She was not surprised, in fact she rather expected him, 
only she hoped he would not be silly. 

“James Anbuthnot Cyril Sebastian, tenth Earl of 
Aldershot,” she murmured, while he was yet a great way 
off. “You’re quite a nice boy. You’re all right, perfectly 
all right, but I’m afraid you don’t appeal.” That’s what 
Katie thought to herself as she waved her club with a 
cheery “hullo!” 

“Hullo,” called Jim. “What luck?” 

“Rotten,” cried Phyllis. 

“Hard lines,” shouted Strephon. 

Oh, shades of all sensitive females! Shades of the 
heroines of nineteenth century novels! What do you 
think of your slangy successors? 

“Rotten!” called Katie, and at the sound all the shades 
stopped their ears under their bonnets and fled away 
as fast as their many petticoats allowed them. 

“Better luck next time,” continued Jim, as he joined 
Katie. “What did you do that last hole in?” 

Then Jim proposed a match. He was a very decent 
golfer, and Katie willingly let him show what he knew 
and help her improve her game. 

“I shall never be a Miss Wethered, though, shall I?” 
she said. 

“Well, I’m not exactly a champion either. Seems to me 
we make rather a good couple,” 


WHIRLWIND 


283 


“Oh, do you?” remarked Katie, rather feebly. 

“Don’t you think we’re fairly well matched?” 

At this juncture discretion seemed the better part of 
valour, and Katie deliberately drove her ball into a dis¬ 
tant clump of rhododendrons. 

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Aldershot. “What on earth 
made you do that?” 

“I’m so sorry. Do you mind retrieving it?” 

As she watched him on hands and knees pushing his 
way amongst the rhododendrons, Katie thought to her¬ 
self, “He’ll never ask me to marry him after that.” 

When Aldershot at last returned her ball she proposed 
adjourning to the house and the two strolled back to the 
gardens and down what was always known as “Lady 
Katherine’s walk,” a broad green way bordered by tall 
yew hedges. 

Her ladyship had been a belle and wit in her day and 
was Katie’s great great great aunt and had written much 
very elegant verse containing more elegance than wit. 

But if her wit had rather worn by now, her beauty still 
remained in Reynolds’ picture of her that hung between 
the windows in the hall. 

Now whether Jim proposed coming across the park, or 
in Lady Katharine’s walk, history telleth not. But if 
you ask me, I think the deed was done when the young 
people were having tea, and without any of the oglings 
or “killing glances” of her ladyship’s day. 

Katie lounged in her chair, smoking a cigarette, when 
she should have sat at her tambour frame and have made 
pretty play with hands and the silks. 

“Good Gad, miss! How you flick the ash with your 
little finger. Monstrous vulgar, by my soul!” exclaimed 
the shade of Lady Katharine Dalison, who, all unseen, 


284 


WHIRLWIND 


paced the terrace “to catch me a breeze this mucky mid¬ 
summer weather.” 

“Uncross your legs, child, and why loll you thus? To 
your sampler, girl.” 

But the words of a ghost may not enter material ears, 
and Jim and Katie are quite unaware of the presence of 
the namesake of old. 

“I say. This is top hole. We two—like this—what? 
Think we’d always get on?” 

Katie looked with innocent wide-open eyes. 

“But of course. I hope we’ll always be friends.” 

“Oh! Bar chaff. I meant more than that.” 

“Have another cigarette.” 

“No thanks. I say—I wish you’d say yes.” 

“Must you ask again, Jim? Let’s agree you’ve said 
nothing and done nothing and we’re just as we were.” 

“Nothing doing, eh?” 

“I’m afraid not. I’m awfully sorry.” 

“You won’t mind if I try again, some other day?” 

“You’ll only get the same answer. I like you awfully 
as a pal, but anything further’s out of the question.” 

“By Jove! That’s straight.” 

“Well, you want me to be straight, I suppose. Now 
have that other cigarette you refused just now and talk 
of something else.” 

And that’s the way they did it. Or something like it. 
Jim lit his cigarette and tried to realise he’d been “turned 
down, by Jove, but she did it awfully nicely, all the same/’ 
and Katie racked her brain to think of something to say 
that should sound sisterly and yet be kind. 

But her ladyship ! Red in the face and flashing of eye 
was she. 

“Was ever so impudent a hussy? To refuse a coronet 


WHIRLWIND 


285 


and so amiable a nobleman. I warrant she’ll answer for 
it to her father. Had I been thus headstrong the Duke 
my father would have had me soundly whipped and shut 
up with naught but bread and water to my meals. But 
these, alas, are degenerate days. And now I mind me 
how the girl cannot even hear,” she continued to herself, 
“I will to the walk and read again that dedication of Sir 
Namby de Pamby. ’Tis very elegant indeed. 

“Ah! Fordcombe! Heavenly spot 
Framed by such beauty, nor by Jove forgot.” 

And so her ladyship faded away into the distance. 

Then the Squire came round bringing Fell with him, 
and they were soon joined by Father Wilfrid, the chap¬ 
lain, who had charmed Augusta during her week-end. 

One morning she had conveyed him to the Upper 
Terrace and there had paced him up and down while she 
related a certain “faux pas” she had unwittingly com¬ 
mitted recently in Italy. 

“I forgot it was Friday and ate some macaroni, you 
know. It had little bits of liver. I tried to pick them 
all out, but I couldn’t you know.” 

“Why should you if you were hungry,” answered the 
priest. “I presume you were hungry? How beautiful 
that clematis looks against that grey wall.” And he had 
actually stopped in admiration before an old gate post 
half smothered in purple blossom, and had apparently 
considered the eating of a little liver on Friday as of no 
importance. 

Then Augusta felt she would never understand her 
church. She had always imagined Friday to be what she 
called a meatless day. Yet there was Father Wilfrid 


286 


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(whose orthodoxy was beyond dispute) dismissing her 
important communication and rapturously beholding a 
clematis. 

“Yes, very,” she had murmured, “very.” But so 
forlornly, the kindly priest had taken pity on what he 
inwardly termed “the enthusiasm of the neophyte and 
allowed her ten minutes’ talk on doctrinal matters. Then 
he found that he had to say his office and left her to 
realise that after all there was nothing like the church 
and she was very glad she had joined it. 

But she ought to have taken it up earlier. 

“It’s everything to begin young,” she sighed; and had 
then set about the harrying of the Squire. 

It was a pleasant group gathered round the tea-table. 
One felt sure that they would never be betrayed into 
saying or doing anything vulgar for the sake of being 
momentarily “smart,” or seek to make themselves con¬ 
spicuous or get paragraphed in newspapers. None of 
them desired notoriety in cheap markets. 

“Sir Desmond is coming down to the cottage, I hear,” 
said Father Wilfrid. “I wonder if he will have any 
special news to give us?” 

“He’s coming to visit Camoys, I believe,” said Fell, 
mentioning the name of the Lord Lieutenant and his 
place. “He lunches there Friday.” 

Then the car crossed the moat bringing Margaret, 
who had been paying calls. 

“What a happy party you look,” she said, as she took 
the tea Katie poured for her. 

“Been calling, Miss Dalison?” asked Jim. 

“Yes. Such nice people. They were all out.” 

Margaret hastened to explain herself. “I mean they 
are charming, and were not at home.” 


WHIRLWIND 


287 

“Quite so, had they been at home you would not have 
thought them charming.” 

“Now Ralph, you know what I mean-” 

“You left no doubt about that, Auntie-” 

“I’ve some news for you,” said Fell presently. “The 
Mrs. Longridge has arrived at the Grange.” 

A silence fell on the company. Father Wilfrid’s face 
never changed, but Ralph and Margaret visibly froze, 
Jim and Fell exchanged glances, while Katie looked into 
her cup. 

Now, the Mrs. Longridge was a pretty lady who had 
got herself into a pretty mess in a not very pretty divorce 
case, and this was the lady who had taken the Grange for 
the summer. 

It was a comfortable modern place with a few acres 
round it, and was the only bit of property thereabout 
that was not Dalison owned. To the Squire it was Na¬ 
both’s vineyard and Naboth had let it to this most unde¬ 
sirable tenant. 

“I wonder what she’s like ?” said Katie. 

“Awfully smart. I saw her once or twice about town,” 
said Jim. 

“Why on earth does she want to come to a place like 
Fordcombe?” demanded Margaret. 

“Perhaps she wants a quiet place to think things out in. 

I expect she’s got a lot of thinking to do,” answered Jim. 

“Well, it’s only for the summer, but I do wish some 
nice people would take the place permanently.” 

“I wish the owner would sell,” sighed Ralph, who 
would have given much to round off his property. 

“Well, I must be trotting,” said Jim. “Been here an 
inconceivable time.” 

And he lifted his long length out of his chair and made 



288 


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his farewells. Margaret could not see there was any 
difference in his good-byes to Katie than in those to 
herself. At the moment the girl happened to be stooping 
down. She was giving a saucer of milk to the exces¬ 
sively hideous kitchen cat that always obtruded itself on 
state occasions, and was indeed usually to be found any¬ 
where except in the kitchen. The stooping would 
naturally account for the slight colour in her cheeks, 
and Margaret came to the conclusion that whatever she 
and Jim had discussed that afternoon the one thing 
they had not talked about was the ethics of love and 
marriage. 

Very established, very settled and composed, the little 
group upon the terrace. Typical of all that is solid and 
best in what is called Society, and goodness gracious, 
what can possibly upset that unstudied order and un¬ 
hurried ease? It is all so smooth, so well groomed and 
finished. The result of many centuries of comfort and 
good living. They have accepted life as it was handed 
down to them, and they will pass it on in their turn, a 
little added to perhaps, a little changed, maybe, but most 
certainly when the time comes it will be handed down 
unspoilt, for generations yet to come. 

Yet at that moment Destiny had decided that her hour 
had come to strike, and merciless, irresistible, came nearei 
and nearer, and faster and faster, upon that unthinking 
little group. 


XXIV 


Desmond came down on the Friday and dined that 
night at the manor. 

It was a happy time for Margaret. He seemed more 
his old self, more like the friend she had known so long. 

He had much to tell her of present plans. There was 
considerable stir (if you remember) in the political 
situation; and Desmond gave Margaret little peeps be¬ 
hind the scenes, knowing he could rely on her discretion. 

And thus they slipped into reminiscences of old days, 
of that first electioneering campaign, now so long ago, 
which had made them acquainted. 

“I prophesied success for you from the first; see how 
right I was.” 

So it was a happy trio that took its way next afternoon 
to Aylmer’s cottage. And as it is the first time we have 
been inside ourselves, let us take a good look round. 

A very excellent old barn had easily been incorporated 
into the main building, and with its fine timbered roof 
made a room almost worthy of the manor; it was wide, 
cool, and well, but not over furnished. 

Katie at once proclaimed her intention of acting as 
mistress and began by re-arranging Aylmer’s flowers. 

“My dear child,” her aunt expostulated. “I really 
think you might leave Aylmer’s house alone! It seems 
to me very delightful as it is.” 

289 


290 


WHIRLWIND 


Katie was holding a vase of blue delphiniums in her 
hand, searching for an advantageous spot to place it. 
“Like all bachelor establishments,” said she, “it needs a 
woman’s touch.” 

Margaret was slightly shocked; really Katie said things 
at times that rather took one’s breath away. 

“I wish you could always look after the place,” said 
Aylmer. “What are you laughing at?” 

“Nothing,” Katie answered, and she stooped to pat a 
somewhat somnolent Freddy lying in front of the fire¬ 
place, wondering why it was not lit. Freddy was not at 
all sure that he approved of all these visitors. One at a 
time he enjoyed, but in his opinion more than one created 
great confusion in the house. 

Then they all went into the garden, and the Squire 
soon made discoveries regarding the difference between 
his own and Aylmer’s lawn. 

***** 

Meanwhile Desmond had had a somewhat exciting 
luncheon. Augusta had been of the party and had seized 
the opportunity to slip in a few home truths. 

“Your Secretary,” she had said. “Charming boy 
Who is he, dear Sir Desmond ?” 

“One of the best I can assure you-” 

“Yes, of course. What’s his family? Or has he merely 
dropped from Heaven? Can’t think, you know,” con¬ 
tinued her ladyship, “how Margaret can allow the girl 
to see so much of him. Only the other day the Duchess 
told me with tears in her eyes, positively with tears in 
her eyes, she was sure it was a mistake.” 

“Do you mean the young people might fall in love?” 

“My dear man,” cried her ladyship, who away from 



WHIRLWIND 


291 


the influence of her Church or any contact with her co¬ 
religionists, invariably slipped back into the worldly 
old woman she was, “men are never in love. They may 
be in trouble; they are often in debt, but never in love 
except with themselves.” 

They d make a good looking couple,’’ murmured 
Desmond. 

“But suppose they don’t remain a couple. You men 
always want to marry where you shouldn’t, never where 
you ought.” 

And the lady gave him a glance to see if the arrow went 
home. “Aggravating creature,” thought she to herself. 
“Still clinging to the memory of his dead wife, or more 
likely someone else’s. These old romances may be de¬ 
lightful in theory, especially in these days of deceased 
wives’ sisters, a type of woman I never heard of till I 
became a Catholic, but in real life this clinging to the 
dead is morbid and unpleasant.” 

When Desmond, in due course, found himself crossing 
the fields on his way back to Fordcombe, he thought the 
young people should make a beautiful thing of life should 
they decide to fashion it together their own way. 

Should it be only a question of income, that could 
readily be solved if the lad were not too proud. There 
would still be the matter of two religions. But who on 
earth is the boy after all ? One can hardly expect a man 
to give his heiress away to somebody who, as Lady 
Alaburton put it, is ‘merely dropped from Heaven.’ ” 

He paused a moment and looked at the roof of Ford¬ 
combe red and glowing in the summer afternoon. Even 
at that distance a certain order, a settled course in life 
seemed to exhale from it. Was it likely it should all be 
handed over to a youthful stranger? 



292 


WHIRLWIND 


Then he fell to thinking of his own prospects. 

Since he had finally decided to make the plunge and 
ascertain Jessica’s whereabouts, and, if he possibly could, 
get his divorce, life had seemed brighter, more worth 
the living. The time seemed to have come when he might 
begin to think of taking his ease, and pave the way for 
a comfortable old age. 

Destiny seemed very bright also on the croquet lawn 
of Aylmer’s cottage. Katie and Aylmer partners against 
the elders, while Fell stood watching the conclusion of the 
match. 

Almost I am tempted to lay down my pen and go no 
further, but conclude the whole with the old fashioned 
tag of “So they married and were happy ever after.” 

This ought to be the fate of all pleasant, kindly folk, 
ought it not ? And I do hope you have taken Aylmer and 
Katie to your heart! Sparing some of course to Mar¬ 
garet, and Desmond too. 

The two marriages seem so right, so ideal, that I 
think they really ought to happen. Don’t you think so ? 

But Fate had reached Fordcombe even while we have 
been thinking. As we stood on the hill, by Desmond’s 
side and looked towards the bright valley, and pictured 
that gay little gathering upon the lawn, and imagined 
how we might quickly end with marriage bells, and 
orange blossoms, Fate was fully bent on frustrating our 
good intention. 

Yes, alas! With callous stride the great Master came 
pacing rapidly to Fordcombe, for things were not pro¬ 
ceeding there according to the law, and therefore a 
catastrophe must happen, and he would be there to see. 

And first he came in the guise of a man, and secondly 
in the garb of a woman. They came from opposite parts 


WHIRLWIND 


293 


of the earth. The man truly, only from London, the 
woman (even then standing on the deck of a cross¬ 
channel steamer) from a long way off. And neither had 
the least idea what the other was about. The woman 
indeed had never even heard of the man’s existence. 

He might be said to be the herald, and he came to knock 
on Aylmer’s door, the forerunner announcing Destiny. 

Yet he was quite an insignificant looking little man, 
merely the youngest partner in the firm of solicitors 
Messrs. Dunstable, Ronalds and Willoughby. 

He knocked, and rang the little electric bell he found 
hidden away in the ivy round the porch. 

No one answered! We might think, knowing whose 
instrument the gentleman was, that the cottage inmates 
had some presentment of evil and were loath to give him 
admittance. 

But Destiny, when his mind is once made up, is not to 
be denied, and therefore forced the insignificant young 
man to knock and ring again. 

Capitulation! 

Mrs. Pritchard opened the door and the insignificant 
young man from London asked to see Sir Desmond 
Antrobus. 

(Even then there was a faint resistance. A last beat¬ 
ing of baffled wings, a last flutter of weak hands.) 

Sir Desmond was out. 

“I have to catch the seven-thirty train back. When 
will he return?” 

“Can’t say.” 

(It almost seemed that Destiny might be defeated after 
all. Well, if you think that, you don’t know Destiny. 
He is like a great eagle, and once he poises for a swoop, 
vain are all the flutterings of baffled wings. And he never 


294 


WHIRLWIND 


makes mistakes. He knows his hour to the fraction of a 
second, and knows his victim too, and just how much that 
sufferer must bear.) 

So Mrs. Pritchard without thought or intention but 
that the law might be fulfilled informed the young man 
that “Mr. Forsyth was in.” 

The gentleman was evidently struck. The name seemed 
familiar. 

“Forsyth, Mr. Forsyth?” he queried. 

“Yes! Mr. Aylmer Forsyth. Sir Desmond’s Secretary. 
You can see him.” 

“Thank you. I should like to. Much obliged.” 

And the Herald went briskly into the house, and Des¬ 
tiny scored the first point in the game. 

“Forsyth”; the Lawyer repeated the name as if amazed. 
“How very singular. Quite a coincidence.” Then aloud 
he added: 

“I am Mr. Willoughby. Perhaps you had better take 
my card.” 

“Sure,” responded Mrs. Pritchard in her slow way. 
‘Til say you wish to see him,” and Destiny grinned at the 
excellent way he had moved another pawn. 

Mr. Willoughby occupied the time till Aylmer should 
arrive, appraising the value of the contents of the room, 
and he came to the conclusion that young men who were 
private secretaries to leading public men, seemed to do 
themselves fairly well. “But no doubt Antrobus would 
put his secretary on to many a good thing.” 

“You wish to see me?” said a pleasant voice behind 
him. 

Mr. Willoughby turned and was surprised to see so 
young a man. 

“Sir Desmond has gone to Camoys Park. I don’t 


WHIRLWIND 


295 


expect him for some time. Is there anything 1 I can 
do?” 

I came on a matter of which you are doubtless aware 
We received instructions some time ago to ascertain the 
whereabouts of Sir Desmond’s-” 

But this was evidently something the chief had not 
thought it necessary to tell him, and was therefore some¬ 
thing he had no business to know. Aylmer interrupted 
quickly. 

“Excuse me, but I think this must be a private matter. 
I know nothing of Sir Desmond’s private affairs.” 

Willoughby laughed. 

I see. It was a Dr. Fell who called upon us in the 
first place with instructions from Sir Desmond.” 

Dr. Fell happens to be here now. You can see him if 
you like.” 

If I could, murmured Mr. Willoughby. But Aylmer 
was already shouting to Fell to come along, and the good 
doctor, thinking some patient had sent for him, came into 
the house. 

“This gentleman wishes to see you,” said Aylmer, “as 
Sir Desmond’s out. Mr. Willoughby.” 

Having introduced them Aylmer went on to a little 
loggia beyond the window. There he was out of ear-shot 
yet within call should he be wanted. 

I think you called some time ago at our office on 
behalf of Sir Desmond Antrobus.” 

“I did, and gave your firm certain instructions.” 

“We carried out those instructions, and I came to-day 
to give Sir Desmond the result of our inquiries.” 

Willoughby knew all about the doctor, and that in 
speaking to him he was practically speaking to his firm’s 
client, 



296 


WHIRLWIND 


“Well Doctor, as Sir Desmond thought all along, 
Lady Antrobus is alive. We have also ascertained the 
lady’s movements up to a few months ago. Sir Desmond 
can get his divorce all right, Doctor. This letter has the 
particulars up to date.” And Willoughby handed Fell a 
rather voluminous envelope. 

“You are quite sure a divorce is possible?” 

“There can be no difficulty whatever! The lady has 
had a remarkable career, and is at present living under 

the name of-and then something made Willoughby 

pause. It may have been that he caught a glimpse of 
Aylmer, outside, whatever it was, he hesitated, and Fell 
filled up the pause. 

“He is sure to be back before long. It might save 
time if you would look in again.” 

“I will try and do so. Good-bye Doctor.” 

“Good-bye,” answered Fell. 

Willoughby saw Aylmer, and being a polite man would 
say good-bye to him also. 

“Won’t you have a whisky and soda, or something?” 
asked Aylmer. 

“No thank you. I’ll return later, on the chance that 
Sir Desmond comes back in time to see me. Good-bye 
Mr. Forsyth,” and now he almost stumbled over the 
name. 

Aylmer felt nervous for some reason; why should the 
lawyer be so anxious to see Antrobus ? And then Fell— 
Aylmer had never seen Fell look so serious before. 

“There’s nothing wrong is there?” he asked. 

Fell started from his reverie, and slipped the letter into 
his pocket. 

“No. Nothing wrong.” And he strolled over to the 
piano and started playing “La Cathedrale Engloutie,” 



WHIRLWIND 


297 


To look at him you would never have suspected he had 
an ear for music. But he was in truth a very cultivated 
musician with a pretty taste in the best music. 

"Of course,” continued Aylmer, “if there’d been a 
woman—I suppose there isn’t a woman anywhere ?” 

Fell smiled, and played something 1 Debussy never wrote. 

“My sweet youth. Women are everywhere. Haven’t 
you noticed them?” 

"I think I have seen them here and there. Well, I hope 
it’s all right, and he gets over it.” 

“He talks of a woman as though she were a thorny 
hedge,” murmured Fell. 

And just then the subject of their conversation came 
in. 

“Back already?” cried Fell. 

If you d been a moment earlier, sir, you’d have met 
Mr. Willoughby, your lawyer, he was frightfully keen 
to see you.” 

“Willoughby! Oh has he been here?” replied Des¬ 
mond. “Well I met the telegraph boy instead. A wire 
for you Aylmer. Any letters?” 

A whole pile over there, sir,” Aylmer answered, and 
opened his telegram. 

One glance and the room echoed with a shout of jov. 

“It’s my mother! She’s coming here! By the 6.15. 
She s wired from Dover! And I thought she was in 
Italy.” 

His mother! And the next thought he had was one of 
Katie. He would be able to show his mother to the girl 
he loved! And what a splendid mother! How delighted 
the Dalisons would be! How she would love Katie! 

Then as Desmond and Fell said how they looked for¬ 
ward to meeting his mother, it suddenly flashed across 


298 


WHIRLWIND 


Aylmer’s mind, how strangely hostile she had always been 
about Antrobus. 

Ah well! She would meet him too, and learn how 
mistaken she had been! How very lucky they would all 
be down at Fordcombe together. 

“I must tell Mrs. Pritchard,” he cried. And he hurried 
out of the room, bent on loving preparations for his 
mother’s advent. 

And that night, little Mrs. Cheltenham, returned to 
her home in the garden suburb from a month in Switzer¬ 
land, told her husband she was quite certain that the tall 
distinguished looking woman on the steamer must have 
been the Princess X. whose portrait she had seen in the 
Sketch, and who was expected shortly in England. 

On the other hand Mabel Flapper was perfectly sure 
that “Darling Lily Longford,” the famous Cinema Star, 
was on the boat when she crossed from Calais. 

“Such a love! Such a pet! I nearly asked for her 
autograph.” 

“Wonder who the devil she is,” Sir George Alaburton 
had said to himself. He knew the Princess and Lily 
Longford too, but this lady was quite another person. 
He had tried to read the names on her luggage label, but 
all he could see were the initials “J. F.” which didn’t help 
him much. 

But the tall distinguished looking woman had seemed 
quite unaware she was creating a mild sensation. Possi¬ 
bly she was used to being the centre of attraction and 
hardly knew people were looking at her. 


XXV 


We must pause a moment. Alas! My poor brother! 
But only a little pause! And consider of Jessica and 
what she felt when she first learned that Aylmer had met 
Desmond. Well, she had a very bad quarter of an hour. 
Her world and the Antrobus milieu seemed divided by so 
wide a gulf that the possibility of their meeting had never 
been taken into her serious consideration. 

She forgot, if she ever realised, that Aylmer, as a young 
man going out into the world, was bound to make his 
own friends. She forgot the smallness of English So¬ 
ciety and how circle touches circle; she forgot her boy 
was bound to meet someone who moved in the Dalison- 
Antrobus set, and she forgot above all, that the very edu¬ 
cation, the very upbringing she had given Aylmer was 
just the very preparation needed to fit him for the friends 
and society he soon found for himself. 

Immediately she received his news she sat down and 
wrote a long letter insinuating that Desmond was an un¬ 
suitable companion whose acquaintance had better be 
dropped. 

It was not a clever move. She should hardly have men¬ 
tioned Antrobus, but have found some very good excuse 
to get Aylmer back to Italy where she might have found 
him some safe, pleasant job through one or other of her 
influential friends. 


299 


300 


WHIRLWIND 


But Jessica was not really very brainy, and that letter 
was one of her mistakes. It was just the letter to call 
for the reply it received, and that was a good-natured, 
chaffing answer to her fears. The mother felt hurt, al¬ 
most annoyed. The boy ignored her point of view as of 
no moment. 

She wrote again, but she forgot the youth was only 
twenty-one and having the time of his young life: skat¬ 
ing, bob-sleighing, ski-ing, tobogganing by day, and 
dancing all night. His answer, when it came, held all 
the old affection, but had quite evidently been written 
hastily. And there was no mention of Antrobus! Did 
that mean the acquaintance had been dropped, or was the 
boy simply careless of her anxiety? 

But if there was no reference to Antrobus in that par¬ 
ticular letter, there were plenty in Aylmer’s subsequent 
epistles. She began to dread what she might read; and 
when she learnt he had become private secretary to An¬ 
trobus, then, oh then, our harassed Jessica felt fear, real, 
trembling fear, for the first time in her life. 

And besides fear, she felt something very like anger. 
Did the young fellow think his own judgment infallible 
that he treated hers almost with contempt ? 

And all the while she was living on thorns lest the ruin 
of her plans came crashing about her head. But those 
very plans had never been carried out. Time and again 
had she meant to start afresh, to make a real home some¬ 
where. First she had thought of England, then she had 
wandered to Landolfo. But though Aylmer had loved 
Landolfo as a schoolboy, he could not be expected to settle 
down in such a place at his age! However, Jessica was 
never wont to spend much time in thought. Very quickly 
she came to a decision, and first she begged the help of 


WHIRLWIND 


301 

her old Prince and a post was found for Aylmer, one that 
would take him out of Desmond’s influence. Thereupon 
she hastened off to England, never for one moment doubt¬ 
ing but that her presence, her personal word, would do 
the work her letters had failed to accomplish. 

***** 

“So the young man’s going to present us with a relation 
at last—if it’s only a mother! I must say I think it’s 
about time. It was Ralph Dalison who spoke, patting 
his sides in the hopes of discovering the whereabouts of 
a secretive box of matches. 

Yes, I suppose it is,” said Fell, who had brought the 
news on to the lawn. 

The voice of the host was now heard in the land sum¬ 
moning them all to tea, and, as they moved towards the 
house, Margaret thought what a cheery, bright young 
fellow Aylmer looked. She supposed it was the thought 
of his mother’s visit. 

And Aylmer admitted to himself that it was a very 
pleasant thing to be able to say: “My mother will be here 
shortly, and very proud was he of possessing so present¬ 
able a parent. Very pleasant, too, the kindly words 
of Miss Dalison, the no less cordial little speech of 
Ralph’s and, above all, the look he caught in Katie’s 
eyes. 

Desmond was at once seized upon by the Squire to 
give some information concerning “the present deplorable 
political outlook. He was, however, crudely interrupted 
by his flippant daughter. 

“Dad, dear, this is not a magistrates’ meeting.” 

“Please, Ralph, no politics.” 


302 


WHIRLWIND 


The Squire looked from one to the other of his women- 
kind and decided that few women took any interest in 
their country’s welfare. 

“Very well,’’ he sighed. “I will cease to cast pearls 
before—h’m—ladies. Still, I must say-” 

“Don’t, father!” 

“My dear child, you speak with all the authority that 
belongs to a wife.” 

“Ah!” said Katie, thoughtfully, “I suppose a wife does 
make a difference in a man’s life.” 

“Well—yes—usually. A good wife is as important as 
a good cook. The difference is that one clings to us while 
we cling to the other.” 

“You darling!” exclaimed Katie. “Do let me know 
when you cling to Mrs. Stilton again. I’d love to see you 
at it.” 

“In all my recollection I can recall no government so 
hopelessly incapable of commonsense,” murmured Ralph, 
returning to his mutton. 

“All governments are incapable,” said Fell from his 
corner. 

Antrobus refused to be drawn, however, and even¬ 
tually the Squire asked if he wasn’t to have his revenge. 
Antrobus had letters to write and Margaret was tired; 
so finally a match was fixed up between Ralph and the 
doctor against the two young people. 

“You mustn’t stay too long, Ralph,” his sister called 
after him. 

Margaret sat in the loggia and watched the four go up 
the little garden towards the lawn. Her attention was 
chiefly concentrated on the younger people. 

In some ways she could wish nothing better for Katie. 
All she knew of Aylmer was in his favour—unfortunately 


WHIRLWIND 


303 


that all was very little. And thinking of Katie 
think of Fordcombe and the country round. 

“It is a goodly heritage,” she thought. “I 
countryside more attractive.” 


made her 
know no 


And so, too, thought Jessica, whose car was threading 
its way in and out of the Sussex lanes, heading to Ford¬ 
combe. 

“I had no idea it was so beautiful,” said she. “It is 
totally unlike anything in any other country.” 

And I think she felt a certain pride in the thought 
that this was her country after all. With all its faults, 
all its mistakes, this amazing country was hers. These 
healthy-looking peasants were her country people. She 
might well be proud of them. 

“I wonder why we English take such a pride in belit- 
tling our native land. I’ve done it myself. No wonder 
foreigners can never understand us.” 

Meanwhile, Margaret had decided to take the present 
opportunity of speaking to Desmond of his protege. 

“If you’re not frightfully busy, could you spare me a 
mmute?” she asked, as she stepped into “the barn.” 

I m snowed under with letters, but go ahead.” 

“I’m worried a little—about Katie.” 

“What’s the young thing been doing?” 

“Perhaps it’s not altogether her fault. Oh,” added 
Margaret suddenly, “I do wish this cottage wasn’t quite 
so close to us.” 

Oh, that s it, is it? Well, what about it?” And An- 
trobus looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. 

What about it? You don’t seem surprised.” 

“Lady Alaburton sat next me at luncheon to-day,” re¬ 
plied Desmond, by way of explanation. And Margaret 
understood. 


304 


WHIRLWIND 


“What do you and Ralph think?” 

“Oh, we’d no idea of anything. It was something Iso- 
bel and Augusta said.” And here she ended with what 
sounded like a sigh. Of course, Augusta and Isobel had 
only spoken from kindness. She could almost wish they 
had not been so very kind. Such kindness as Augusta’s 
for instance, was almost brutal. To have one’s duty 
thrust so prominently before one was rather irritating, 
especially if one knew it to be one’s duty. 

“We both like the boy so much, only—who is he?” 

Desmond ignored the question and seized on the first 
part of her reply. He thought her looking very pretty 
and sweet with the little air of perplexity about her; in¬ 
deed, he thought of her so much that he had no thought 
just then for anyone else and had quite forgotten a cer¬ 
tain letter lurking in his pocket. 

“I’m glad you like him. I want you to like the people 
I like.” 

“He’s a dear. I think you must have been like him at 
his age.” 

“Ah! I never was twenty-three. I remained seventeen 
till I suddenly found I was seventy-one. But that’s another 
story. What about these young folk?” 

“If only we’d not gone to Miirren, none of this would 
have happened,” said Margaret ruefully. She remembered 
that she had never wanted to go to Switzerland. She dis¬ 
liked snow, even when seen through the windows of an 
efficiently warm hotel. But Katie had been so keen and 
the expedition had been primarily for her. 

Before Desmond could offer any suggestion as to what 
might have chanced had things been quite other than what 
they had been, they were joined by Ralph, who appeared 
to be somewhat heated and out of temper. 


WHIRLWIND 


305 


Events on the croquet lawn were not going at all well. 
Aylmer’s lawn was by no means in that state of excellence 
he had been led to suppose, and he entertained grave 
doubts about the hoops. They did not seem quite of 
regulation size. In fact, he would be very much surprised 
if they were not considerably narrower than the majority 
of hoops. Finally, his ball had been sent to “the edge of 
beyond” by an unfilial daughter. 

“A cigar, or I shall swear,” cried the unfortunate man. 
“The modern child has no sense of that duty which I at 
least was taught to be due to ageing parents. And the 
lawn wants rolling badly.” 

“Yesterday you said ours wanted mowing,” said Mar¬ 
garet, smiling. “We were just talking about Katie—and 
Aylmer, you know,” she added. 

“Ah, yes,” said the Squire, as he helped himself to a 
cigar from a box on a side table. “Very right, very 
proper indeed. (Puff.) What can you tell us, Desmond? 
(Puff.) In these days one doesn’t look for a man to have 
a grandfather, but this youth doesn’t seem to have 
had even a father.” (Puff, puff, puff—crowds of 
puffs.) 

“Perhaps not. I wonder how Mrs. Forsyth managed,” 
Desmond remarked. 

“He may have heaps of charming relations,” put in 
Margaret, ever wishful to be kind. 

But the Squire was still a little peeved. Even his cigar 
refused to draw properly and was burning down one side. 

“Well, where are they?” he exclaimed. 

Not knowing, Margaret observed that: “Of course the 
family might have died out.” 

“Then,” cried her brother triumphantly, “we should at 
least be shown the tombstones.” 


3°6 


WHIRLWIND 


“My dear old friend,” said Desmond, “I never thought 
you worldly before.” 

But Ralph’s good humour was being rapidly regained. 
He had lit another cigar (he could prove quite an expen¬ 
sive guest in little matters), and was getting considerable 
satisfaction out of it. To be called ‘ worldly was the 
very last thing he wished to be. 

“Nor am I,” he expostulated. “But this is most seri¬ 
ous. I understand that young Aldershot is what is the 
word ?—epris with Katie. Now Aldershot is, well Aider- 
shot, while young Forsyth is, after all, well—young For¬ 
syth. Oh, very charming, but if there’s anything between 
him and my girl, I really must know more about Prince 
Charming than that he is—well—charming.” 

This was a long speech for the Squire and there seemed 
no ready-made answer to it. Some idea filtered through 
Desmond’s mind that traditions and obligations might 
prove rather sorry shackles and something of this he 
might have said, but Katie had worked her wicked will 
and it was now Ralph’s turn to play, as Fell, mallet in 
hand, came into the room to tell him. 

“My turn?” exclaimed the old gentleman, jumping up 
from the chair in which he had seated himself. “Good 
gracious! I wonder where Katie has sent me now.” And 
he careered down the little garden path, cigar in mouth, 
happily unconscious it had gone out. 

But time was getting on and Fell had one or two 
patients to visit. 

“Would you take my place?” he asked Margaret, when 
he had explained. 

“I ought to be going, too,” she answered. “I had no 
idea it was so late.” 

“How busy you all are,” said Desmond from his seat 


WHIRLWIND 


307 


at the writing table. “I consider this Martha-like mood 
of everybody most uncalled for.” 

“Somebody must do something,” sniggered Fell, as he 
made to leave the house. “We’re not all of the idle rich.” 


XXVI 


Margaret would have also gone but Desmond stopped 
her. 

“Must you really go?” he asked. 

“Yes, I think so. I’ve interrupted your work shame¬ 
fully.” „ , 

“My work be-. What’s the exact word? All the 

same, I insist on going with you, if only to the gate.” 

And so they went together into the garden. 

And suddenly Desmond became again the grave, pre¬ 
occupied man she had met so often lately. The man ab¬ 
sorbed with care of which she knew nothing. It was 
something that he seemed to wish to keep to himself and 
not confide to her. As though he closed a door between 
them, leaving her in the cold, shutting her out in the dark¬ 
ness/ Had she but known it the outer darkness in which 
she stood and the loneliness that seemed to stifle her was 
as the sun at noonday and the company of seraphs to the 
blackness in Desmond’s heart, and the isolation of his 
desert places. 

Yet not for worlds would she encroach or force her 
friendship should he wish to stand alone. But it hurt a 
little. He seemed to regard her friendship as something 
to be taken out only on fine days. She knew very well 
it would not spoil in foul weather, and could stand a good 
deal of rough and tumble. 


308 


WHIRLWIND 


309 


Looking up she saw the trouble in his face, and at 
length she spoke. 

“Why must I be treated to a sort of picnic intimacy 
by my friends, Desmond ?’’ 

So kind, so gentle was she that for a moment he hesi¬ 
tated. They were standing close together by a little side 
gate that led out into the lane. The trees were thick and 
high, and met together overhead. It was a very sheltered 
place, a very meet spot for such a confidence as he had to 
give. It was very quiet, very still, only the late sun 
thrust golden fingers through the leaves and touched the 
branches and the undergrowth. 

‘ Perhaps some day—I may have a story to tell you, if 
you’ll listen,” he said. 

“Of course I will,” Margaret answered. 

And the sun came further down. And a stray bird 
twittered to its nest. And the trees pressed their heads 
yet nearer together. There seemed a spirit of expectancy 
abroad. Surely this was the time and place to tell his 
history, to take her to him, press her to his heart! 

But there was another destiny for these two. So Des¬ 
mond did not speak that the law might be fulfilled. 

Then that s understood,” he murmured. “I shall 
come.” 

The words struck Margaret almost with the force of a 
blow. It was hard when one had tried to hold out a help¬ 
ing hand to have it thus turned aside. There remained no 
sunshine in the thicket now, only a cold rain falling. 

Quite, she said, and passed out through the little 
gate. 

Desmond called her back. 

“Yes?” she enquired, hoping he had repented. 

I forgot something. Perhaps I spoke rather casually 


3io 


WHIRLWIND 


about Aylmer just now. If there should be anything in 
the affair, go gently with the boy, won’t you? I know 
him so well, and at his age love is such a terrible busi¬ 
ness.” 

So it was only for someone else he asked her sympathy, 
for somebody he seemed to care for most in all the world. 
It was with rather a forlorn little smile she answered. 

“How fond you are of Aylmer.” 

“It is one of my many regrets that I haven’t a son like 
him.” 

Now to her quick ear there was a world of sorrow in 
that sentence. It was the hopeless regret of the childless 
man who, having all things, had yet no one to follow in 
his steps. And suddenly she saw the pathos of this suc¬ 
cessful, much sought after man, In the loneliness of his 
soul! How poor in the midst of wealth, what a failure in 
the hour of his success. And she saw also how the whole 
structure of Desmond’s career was built on a foundation 
of futility, and this revelation made her own hurt a very 
little thing. Here was something needing help, infinitely 
pathetic, struggling in a big loneliness. 

It was with a little impulsive gesture, almost maternal, 
that she spoke. 

“Desmond. You’re not in any trouble ?” 

“Why should you think that?” he answered. 

“Instinct, perhaps, or a woman’s curiosity.” 

“I should never attribute curiosity to you. In any 
case, don’t worry. I’m thinking of making a fresh start 
and I’d like to come when the slate’s clean and waiting 
for a new story. I wonder if you’d help me with the 
lurid bits?” 

She was glad to see that the momentary gloominess 
had vanished. She had seen something of his real mind, 


WHIRLWIND 


3 ii 

if only an instant’s vision, and she was content now to 
wait for whatever he might have to tell, until such a time 
as he saw fit to speak. 

“Choose your own time, Desmond. But I fear I’m not 
much good at purple passages.” 

And she gave him a friendly little nod before continu¬ 
ing her way up the hill, and Desmond stood and watched 
her with a curious tugging at his heart till a bend in the 
lane took her out of his sight. 

Even then he lingered a little; then he turned, and feel- 
mg happy inasmuch as he felt sure of himself, he went 
back to the house and his much neglected work. 

He went quickly up the path, quickly across the little 
paved garden in front of the big windows of the barn, 
and so preoccupied with his own thought was he that the 
sound of fingers running over the notes of the piano as 
though trying the quality of the instrument never reached 
his ears. Now on the wall facing the window was a large 
old mirror so placed that it reflected not only the great 
doors of the barn and the garden out beyond, but the face 
of anyone at the piano. 

The slanting sun poured in at this hour, sending a great 
ray of light across the polished floor and up the opposite 
side of the room, and anyone standing in the garden door 
cast a long shadow on the piano. 

Desmond came so quickly, so lightly, the player had no 
idea of another’s presence until that long shadow fell sud¬ 
denly across the room, then, looking up, their eyes met in 
the mirror, and stayed there glued to one another. And 
so they both stared, gazing at each other in the mirror 
***** 

When Mrs. Pritchard heard the bell for the second time 
that afternoon, I believe she said “Drat!” She was busy 



312 


WHIRLWIND 


over “something extra” in honour of her master’s mother, 
and decided “Whoever it was must just wait.” 

But when she did go to the door, and when she learnt 
who the visitor was, she was all smiles and courtesy. 

“A real lady. I should say so, and grander than Miss 
Dalision, who was a very sweet and kindly lady. But 
Mrs. Forsyth had a way with her that made you feel your¬ 
self a queen.” Indeed, for the rest of her life she never 
ceased singing the praises of Jessica, and these only grew 
more marvellous as time went on. 

Surely this coming to her boy’s home was one of the 
most beautiful, yet piteous things Jessica had ever done. 
Beautiful in that it held something of the nature of a 
sacred pilgrimage. Piteous in its inevitable futility. It 
was beautiful in its expectancy, beautiful in its beginning, 
most pitiful in its ending. 

Oh! But that I could make you feel one-tenth of the 
joy and love that filled that mother’s heart, as she walked 
up the little path and knocked for admittance at her son’s 
door. 

And then it suddenly occurred to her that this would 
be the first time that son had ever acted as host to his 
mother. It was a delicious thought. She loved to linger 
over it. Aylmer had always come to her. Now it was his 
turn to shelter her; and well she could picture his delight 
at such a task. 

She took a good look at the little place before she 
knocked and rang. It seemed to smile upon her. It was 
all simple, all beautiful. The original builder had sought 
no effect. Time, perhaps, had helped him a little; had 
pulled the cottage down here, or given a little tug there, 
and had persuaded that rose to run up the chimney-stack, 
%nd wave a red flag there. Jessica thought it was all quite 


WHIRLWIND 


313 


delicious and she felt some of the feelings of a devout 
Moslem when first he beholds the domes and minarets of 
Mecca. 

“No tea, thank you,” she replied to Mrs. Pritchard’s 
hospitality, “and don’t tell Mr. Forsyth I am here yet.” 

Jessica wanted to spin out her pleasure, playing with it 
like the epicure she was, but Aylmer had gone as far as 
the Manor with Ralph and Katie, and Mrs. Pritchard 
said so. 

“What a perfectly delightful room,” Jessica exclaimed, 
when she entered “'the barn,” “and how unexpected.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Pritchard answered. She would 
have much preferred a proper ceiling herself and not have 
had “them timbers showing.” “It was all right for the 
gentry, but for her part she liked to be respectable.” 

“I hired a car at the junction instead of waiting for 
the train for Stilborough. That’s why I’m so much before 
my time. You’ve always been with my son, I think?” 

“Yes, ma’am, ever since Mr. Forsyth came and my 
husband died.” 

The two events were always closely connected in Mrs. 
Pritchard’s mind. Perhaps she sometimes thought that 
as Pritchard’s death had to be one day it was just as well 
that it happened when it did. 

When Mrs. Pritchard left and she had time for a good 
look round, Jessica felt a curious sense of Aylmer’s pres¬ 
ence, as though he must be close beside her. The place 
was full of him. 

“Nothing is overdone, everything is just right,” she 
commented. “I wonder who helped him with the flow¬ 
ers? That looks like a woman’s hand.” 

Well, we know who was responsible for them, as Jes¬ 
sica will very likely ere long. Then her eye fell upon a 


314 


WHIRLWIND 


photograph and she crossed the room to have a closer 
inspection. It was one of Margaret Dalison, but Jessica, 
seeing it was not the face of a young woman, put it down, 
taking no further interest in it. 

Then she saw the grand piano, which looked a good 
one, and smiled as she saw it. 

“Dear boy! What a piece of extravagance when he 
only vamps fox-trots and one-steps.” 

She herself went at once to read the maker’s name and 
try the tone. It was a good name, none better, and she 
slipped off her gloves and ran her fingers over the keys. 

“Quite decent. Very decent, indeed,” she decided. 
And again her fingers ran up and down. 

Then a strange thing happened. A moment ago the 
sun had been streaming in at the open door and now, 
behold, a long shadow had fallen right across the place 
where she stood. 

She looked up to see what it was, and as she raised her 
eyes they fell on the mirror opposite, and she remained 
gazing into it as though it had mesmerised them. She did 
not start, indeed, she made no movement at all. She 
simply stared at a face reflected there, a face she knew 
from pictures in illustrated papers, though the face she 
looked on was grimmer than in the photographs, and the 
eyes looked as though they had seen a ghost. 

She ceased strumming on the piano, very slowly, quite 
unconscious whether she played or stopped, then turned, 
and after more than twenty years stood once more face 
to face with her husband. 

How little she had changed. A certain fullness here and 
there, a certain dignity and authority that comes with 
the years; that was about all. 

Even a? she turned had not Desmond felt something 


WHIRLWIND 


315 


of the old thrill at the graceful bend of that lovely neck? 
She was certainly one of the wonders. How in God’s 
name was it done? And what in God’s name was she 
doing here? 

It was a mistake, of course. He remembered now—the 
Grange—she was a friend of its dubious tenant and had 
mistaken the house; that explained everything. 

For one horrified moment he had thought “this must 
be the adored mother from Italy.” Then the absurdity 
of confusing two such different women, and his long con¬ 
viction of the sweetness and sanctity of Aylmer’s mother 
rose up and shamed him, and Desmond’s one thought was 
to get the woman out the house as quickly as he could. 
But his hesitation had given Jessica an advantage. That 
lady found herself not so terribly at a loss. She had for 
so long looked for a catastrophe so much worse, that this 
meeting came somewhat in the nature of an anti-climax. 
Indeed, they might even come to some understanding, if 
Desmond had grown into the sensible man she expected. 


XXVII 


And she was still smiling when she broke the silence, 
that threatened to become quite awkward, by saying, in 
the most charming and perfect manner, “How do you 
do?” 

When Desmond heard that musical voice, it seemed 
quite impossible so many years had gone since he had 
heard it last. At once rose to his eyes, vividly, insistently, 
across the desert years, the mirage of an untidy little room 
in an untidy little house. Chairs covered with clothes, an 
ugly washstand, a cracked glass on the dressing table. 
And, most clear of all, the sight of a young fellow off 
“to see an Editor chap,” kissing his wife good-bye. And 
the wife’s arms are round her husband’s neck, and she 
whispers, “don’t be late for tea will you, dear?” And 
looking on Jessica she seemed hardly to have changed at 
all. 

Yet all the happenings of the intervening years lay thick 
upon them. And as he realised this woman was indeed the 
Jessica of old, he found that he could look on her dis¬ 
passionately, as though she were somebody with whom 
he had nothing to do. 

And Jessica thought that, but for the illustrated papers, 
she would never have known Desmond again he had 
grown so much older. But he had also improved. There 
was an atmosphere of success about him. Now Jessica 
316 



WHIRLWIND 


317 


liked successful men, she had frequently found them of 
great use, and Desmond rose in her estimation. 

Thus it was these two met again, and thus it was they 
took each other’s measure. 

Did you expect a start? A cry of horror! A mutual 
exclamation of “You!” 

Well, people may be full of dramatic possibilities and 
yet remain entirely free from melodrama. Drama comes 
to all of us. Melodrama is what we strain after. 

But I doubt Jessica was so easy in her mind as she tried 
to imagine herself. 

This Desmond, standing just inside the garden door, 
looked very self-possessed and determined, very much 
as though he had his foot upon his native hearth and 
meant to turn this unwelcome intruder off it. He re¬ 
minded her of the few men she had met and been unable 
to influence, and Jessica had no use for that kind of man. 

* * * * * 

“Get out.” Desmond had taken three steps to her 
and coolly, authoritatively ordered her out of the house. 

Such language, such treatment was quite other to her 
recollection of Desmiond. When she had thought of him 
at all, it had been as a sort of patient dog. But he seemed 
to have grown into quite another sort of animal. 

“How dare you take that tone to me?” 

The moment the words were out of her mouth she re¬ 
gretted them. They were shrewish, second-rate, un¬ 
worthy of her and savoured of bravado. 

But, alas! and alack! our poor Jessica hadn’t devel¬ 
oped along the lines of dignity. 

Often in her battles in the past she had found a little 
temper a very useful ally. 


WHIRLWIND 


318 

She was still a well-bred woman, but the simple dig¬ 
nity which should be hers without her troubling to think 
about it, had become a something she had to remember; 
and very often, in moments of great excitement for in¬ 
stance, well, quite candidly, it was something she not 
only forgot, but didn’t care a hang if she did forget. 

But her sense of humour was as keen as ever, and sud¬ 
denly it rose up now. The situation all at once struck her 
as being distinctly amusing. Surely all the cards were in 
her hand? “You mean to turn me out?” 

How can I describe the quiet assurance with which 
Jessica spoke now? A moment back she was ill at ease, 
now she was all smiles as though she had a little secret that 
mightily amused her. 

But she did not continue long in this comfortable state 
of mind. Desmond was determined to end the unpleas¬ 
ant interview and get her out of the house with all speed, 
before the rest of the party returned. 

“This lad is in my service. He is young enough to 
be my son. I feel responsible for him. Now, what are 
your relations?” 

“The friendliest,” with a beaming smile. 

“Has he been your lover?” 

The possibility of such a point of view had never oc¬ 
curred to Jessica. The horror of it! The grossness, so 
suddenly revealed, forced a cry of horror from her. 

“Oh, no! No!” 

Desmond mistook her completely and read her very 
genuine indignation as mere acting—rather over-done— 
perhaps he was a hard judge, but remember how well she 
had acted years ago when she had put her arms round his 
neck and had said “You won’t be late for tea?” 

He had never quite forgotten that little episode, or ever 


WHIRLWIND 


319 


quite forgiven the woman for her lying. Alas! he would 
never have believed she had spoken without thinking and 
had been ashamed as soon as she had spoken. 

Do you wish me to make your stay impossible ?” 

Jessica stared, frankly astonished. How could he force 
her to go? 

“You mean you’d turn me out ?” 

“Of all the men in the world,” she murmured only 
half audibly, “you are the last I ever wanted to meet 
again. And to think I should do so—here.” 

There was such a genuine ring of abhorrence in her 
voice that almost Desmond smiled. Such sincerity was 
quite refreshing. 

“Why interfere at all?” said Jessica, “I’ll go as soon 
as I can. Will that do?” 

Now Desmond had learnt in his journey through the 
world, that a woman never compromises unless she knows 
that she is beaten; therefore, being translated, her words 
meant that “I will do as you tell me in a few minutes, 
sneak away quietly and disappear as I came, but you 
mustn’t expect me to do so all at once.” 

“Forsyth is expecting his mother in about half-an- 
hour. I do not intend you should force him. to introduce 
you to her—and others. If you insist on remaining, I 
shall tell them who and what you are.” 

“You’d give me away to him? Tell him every¬ 
thing?” 

“Everything. I have learnt today the sort of life you 
have been leading.” 

This is what she had feared so long, what she had come 
to England—to Fordcombe to prevent. But she had 
never looked for anything like this. She had dreaded 
some accident, some idle word, or act, some little coin- 


320 


WHIRLWIND 


cidence that would reveal the truth. Never for one mo¬ 
ment had she dreamed that Desmond would himself de- 
liberately disclose the truth. 

If there was any lingering doubt in her mind, Des¬ 
mond’s next words finally drove it out. 

“Certainly! However painful to myself.” 

“I can’t go! It would look so odd—how could my dis¬ 
appearance be explained? If only you d keep silent. 

“No.” Desmond rapped out the word, impatient at the 
woman’s obstinacy. 

“I mean till I’m gone. Let us compromise. I’ll go. 
right away—just as you order. But you must let me see 
him alone first.” Jessica looked at Desmjond and smiled 
almost wistfully, and even with a certain amount of 
pathos. She had often been told of the power of her 
smile. And probably had as large an assortment of that 
useful article as she had of tears, of which she had every 
conceivable variety. And why not? It’s well to be armed 
at all points when you are, well, what Jessica had become. 
And she looked very irresistible; but Desmond remem¬ 
bered Margaret, of whom poor Jessica knew nothing, and 
thus lacked the key to the situation. So for once, soft, j 
coaxing voice and glance were wasted. 

“Only give me an hour, then it shall be your turn, let 
me have one hour.” 

“Half-an-hour then! A quarter! Five minutes only!” j 
She was pleading now, making no further demands, but 
throwing herself on his generosity. 

“Not one instant. If you remain, I explain everything. ; 
Now, do you understand?” 

What could be done with such a man? However, she 
held the ace of trumps. He might take these few paltry 
tricks, but the trick that should win the game, that must 



WHIRLWIND 


321 


be hers. And remembering this Jessica said, “You seem 
to think it will be an easy thing to turn me out. I think 
you are mistaken. I shall wait.” 

She had not to wait long. 

Abruptly! Sharply! Without warning! Thus the 
door burst open, and a young fellow, buoyant, jubilant, 
effervescing, sparkling, with light in his eyes and swift- 
ness in his feet, broke into the room. 

“Mater!” 

One word! One look! One instant flash of revela¬ 
tion and like Paul of old—Desmond stood groping, al¬ 
most blinded by the truth so suddenly revealed 
“Mater!” 

There was no mistake! The boy had rushed to Jes¬ 
sica, hugged her, laughing and talking at once. No, there 
could be no mistake! Jessica had forgotten Desmond’s 
very existence. 

“Dearest boy!” and there was a world of love in voice 
and look. 

“How wonderful. How did you get here so soon?” 

“I motored. Kiss me again, you dear.” 

A hug and a merry boyish laugh. 

Where s Sir Desmond ? Oh, there you are, sir. Sup¬ 
pose you’ve introduced each other. Look here, I must 
go and wash. Back in a sec’. This is great.” 

Quick as he had come, as ardent, as impulsive, he was 
out of the room and up the stairs, hurrying, as he best 
knew, to get back to those two dear people whom he had 
left, standing face to face, the woman with the light of 
triumph in her eyes, the man dumb, dazed and surely 
dreaming. 

This then had been her secret! This then was why she 
had stood her ground; this it was that could make her 


322 


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laugh and say it would not after all be so easy to turn 
her out! 

And Jessica, who for a moment had very nearly for¬ 
gotten Desmond, remembered him now, and turned and 
looked upon him. 

She was feeling very secure. The cards were all falling 
as she would wish. Very soon it would be time to play 
her ace of trumps. 


XXVIII 

When she looked at Desmond she was, to do her jus¬ 
tice, really shocked at the change she saw in the man. 
Gone was the self-possessed man of the world, and in 
place thereof stood a man of straw, hesitating, uncer¬ 
tain. For Desmond’s mind had ceased to work. Like 
a fine piece of delicate machinery it had suddenly jarred 
into a standstill. He could but repeat to himself, “This 
woman—this wanton—is the adored mother.” 

And Jessica knew the time had come to play her ace 
and settle the business once and for all. It was with 
undoubted truth and with all sincerity, even as one with 
great authority, she looked Desmond squarely in the 
face and answered his unspoken question. 

“I don’t believe it.” 

“There are such things as birth certificates, you know. 
Oh, he’s your boy right enough.” 

And somehow Desmond had ceased to doubt her. 
There was so much honesty, so much unfeigned sincerity 
in that slow, silvery voice of hers. And then his own 
manhood, the fatherhood within him confirmed her. Dazed 
and stupid he might be, but he no longer denied—instead, 
he was struggling to adjust his mind to this astounding 
thing, so pregnant with possibility. 

He was like an explorer landing on the shore of some 


323 


WHIRLWIND 


324 

uninhabited island, unmarked on any map, discovered 
unwittingly and in the night. A country full of the unex¬ 
pected, of dark forests, of storms—far other to the lotus 
land he sought—and yet with sunshine lighting up the 
mountain tops. 

And Jessica knew nothing could prevent every one ot 
her shafts from going home. 

“Weren’t you exactly like him at his age? Not so 
much in looks, but in little mannerisms, little tricks of 
speech and character? He is twenty-three. He was born 
—soon after we—parted.” 

“My son! My son!” 

Good God! Only that afternoon had he been longing 
“for a son like him,” and now that very boy, that frank, 
manly lad was indeed his very son. It was more excite¬ 
ment that Desmond felt at that moment than anything else. 
The potentialities, the possibilities all crowded so thickly 
round him, they shut out the real situation from his line 
of vision. The God-sent fact shouted in his ear as might 
the trumpet of Gabriel in the ear of some Old Testament 
Saint, and so filled his world with sound he could hear 
nothing else. 

“My son! My son!” 

So fiercely shone the truth that Desmond was lost, and 
stumbled mentally, as a man blind from birth, receiv¬ 
ing the gift of sight, beholding men like trees walking, 
and mountains that were but little stones, would hesitate 
how to go. 

Then Desmond recalled the woman whom he had al¬ 
most forgotten in his excitement. And, remembering, he 
realised something of the immensity of his problem. 

“What are you going to do?” 

Yes! In God’s name what could he do? Climb the 


WHIRLWIND 


325 


housetops and shout the truth to all the world? How 
could he do that under the boy’s own roof? Yet it was 
equally impossible to let the thing drift. 

“The situation is impossible,” he cried. “He thinks 
you perfection. He idolises you.” 

“Well?” 

Jessica had no doubt about the answer. “If he really 
cares for the boy he won’t hurt him,” or so she thought. 

But Desmond remembered Margaret, and stammered 
a little as he answered. 

“There are all—these—others-” 

“What others?” 

“Dalison—his sister—his daughter.” 

To Jessica these were but names she remembered to 
have read in Aylmer’s letters. People of no importance, 
therefore to be swept aside should they prove troublesome. 

But Desmond was doing some hard thinking. Was 
Margaret to meet Jessica, touch her hand, be kind and 
gracious, and doubtless ask her up to her own home ? 

“You don’t understand,” he answered. “You couldn’t. 
Good God! What is the right thing to do ?” 

Jessica was growing impatient. Aylmer might return 
at any moment, and she wanted Desmond’s promise of 
silence first. To her it seemed incredible that he should 
even hesitate. Surely, never would any man tell his own 
son (a son he had only just discovered) that the adored 
mother was no better than a prostitute ? 

So she had thought, until she heard Desmond wonder¬ 
ing what the right thing to do might be. 

“Oh, but that’s you,” she cried. “Not the easiest, not 
even the kindest, but the right way. At least, you’ll do 
nothing in haste?” 

“I must think—I tell you I don’t know—I must think.” 



WHIRLWIND 


326 

And nothing further could she get out of him. He 
would commit himself to no promise, or give her any 
guarantee. Still, she had gained time, and that was 
everything. And she would be able, with luck, to con¬ 
trive that talk with Aylmer, for which she had travelled 
all the way to England. 

As to the boy. What need to describe his happiness? 
Happiness that came with almost overwhelming abun¬ 
dance, for while going with Katie and her father, Provi¬ 
dence, that sometimes takes young lovers under special 
protection, had sent the Squire’s Bailiff across their path 
with business that admitted no delay. So the Squire had 
stayed behind while the two young people went on alone, 
and somehow, well—Aylmer had contrived to do a little 
more than merely pave his way. 

Now Cupid, when once he has taken a fancy to you, 
has many helps to give; and many kinds of arrow fill his 
quiver. A look can be more eloquent than words, and 
silence prove more powerful than speech. 

In silence lovers learn what cannot be translated. 
Music is born in silence; even the solid earth we know, 
reveals some beauty that we have not seen before. In 
silence burdens fall away; grief flies to some dark place, 
and the road that stretched so dreary, dark and toilsome, 
hard to tread and difficult to see, now blossoms into 
Paradise. Moss for stones; roses for thorns; rare fruits 
where brambles grew; sunshine for darkness; cool trees, 
running brooks and joyous company in place of what 
had seemed a desert yesterday. 

In such a silence mjan can read his fate and, reading, 
learn his possibilities. Great hopes are born in silence, 
high ambitions bred, and the prophecy of that estate 
waiting the smallest of created things, no longer looms 


WHIRLWIND 


327 


a visionary’s dream. Where, oh man, are your limita¬ 
tions? Where the summit which you may not reach? 
What unattainable when nothing but your thoughts can 
limit you? What you look for, that you will acquire, 
and what you strive for, some day will you grasp. Only 
in the still, small voice God speaks. 

And even so had our nice young people walked, and 
learnt all mjanner of nice things in the way it is meet for 
nice young lovers to learn. 

And if the girl felt a radiance in wood and field, and 
joy bubbling like a spring, the boy was no less conscious 
that to-day was not as yesterday. 

There had been times when both had forgotten the 
presence of their elders. Dalison had wondered, and 
thought them flippant. Margaret too had wondered, 
but her conclusion had been other than her brother’s. It 
had excited and thrilled, but also worried her. It was 
very beautiful, very bright and sunny, only, well, “the 
sunshine always cast a shadow where it went.” 

* * * * * 

Aylmer thought the Squire joined them all too quickly. 
It had been delicious standing under the elms and watch¬ 
ing the sun slant down the heavens. 

I think we should not be intruding if we also stood 
there awhile. It is so beautiful an evening, the loveliest 
hour of all, when the sun seeks every nook and corner 
before bowing in good-bye. 

A burnished light on cottage walls, the com more 
golden yet, the rich pastures deeper, greener than before. 

The cows go home, each to her stall, each in due order 
of precedence. The sheep begin to huddle in the fold; 


328 


WHIRLWIND 


the boy, taking the horses to water, perched sideways on 
the harness, whistles; or shouts to a distant comrade. 

The day’s work is done, everything is aware of it and 
very content to have it so. 

The great horses take their last drink. Well they 
know their evening round. Watch them go with certainty 
to the water and gingerly enter therein. What a pleasant 
sight, those long glossy necks and soft brown noses 
stooping down, and what a satisfaction in the long drawn 
drink. How they possess the place, and oh ! with what 
consummate aloofness do the outraged geese gaze an¬ 
other way! 

Yes, it is pleasant, this lazy hour at the end of the day. 
And to Aylmer there seemed everywhere a very beauti¬ 
ful peace like a benediction and a healing balm; a song 
of thankfulness; a psalm of praise for all the good things 
life had sent. 

And if his cup of joy seemed fairly full then, had it 
not filled to overflowing when he learnt how his mother 
had already arrived? 

And now he was hurrying all he knew to return to the 
two dear people he had always desired should meet. 

“I suppose you know one another quite well by now,” 
he called gaily, offering cigarettes to Antrobus, who took 
one and forgot to light it. “Mater! I’ve got a party!” 

“A party! But, dear boy, I haven’t a frock.” 

Aylmer grinned. “I expect you’ve brought a rag or 
two along. It’s top hole your turning up like this. You 
complete the show! Doesn’t she, sir?” 

Jessica had sat herself close to the big open fireplace. 
Aylmer’s hand was on the back of her chair, himself 
perched on the arm thereof, and thus I think they made 
a very pretty picture. 


WHIRLWIND 


329 


“Don’t be absurd, Aylmer.” 

“Well, I feel absurdly happy you know,” the boy 
answered. And the words rang in Desmond’s ears all 
the evening. 

“Do come and play, or do you want to go upstairs?” 

“Not just yet. I’ll play if you like.” 

The very last thing Jessica wanted just then was to 
leave the father and son together, so she very gladly 
jumped at Aylmer’s suggestion. 

“But I don’t profess to play the piano you know,” she 
added, the musician coming out in her even at such a 
crisis. 

Oh, not as you do the fiddle. But come and vamp 
something.” 

Jessica was much amused. “Desmond looks fit to hang 
himself, and certainly the position is rather difficult. 
Perhaps a little music till dressing time may ease the 
situation.” 

And with this kindly thought, the sweet woman fol¬ 
lowed her son to the piano. I think she rather exaggerated 
the grace of her movements. There was “a liquefaction” 
as Herrick has it, about her that was surely not altogether 
natural. I think she posed a little for Desmond’s benefit. 
Just to let him see how confident she felt of her position. 

Our darling was the simplest, most unaffected creature 
in the world, but when a particular effect called for a 
little underlining, no one knew how to do it better than 
our adorable Jessica. 

She had picked up a few tricks in the course of her 
career, and some of them had become so natural to her, 
that she played them off occasionally quite unconsciously. 
So cool the voice, so exquisite the turn of the head, so 
perfect the smile—could it all be done without a little 


330 


WHIRLWIND 


rehearsing? I think it was a trifle more mechanical than 
it used to be before she’d been told so much about it. 
Again, Desmond could see her walking down the stairs at 
the famous dinner party at Aunt Elinor’s. With just that 
turn of the head had she spoken over her shoulder to 
little Mrs. Tom following behind! Ah! How long ago! 
Well, if a little more mechanical than of old it was still 
full of fascination, and certainly incomparably superior 
to any other woman’s art. 

“Do you care for music, Sir Desmond?” 

“You wouldn’t ask that if you knew him better.” 

“Perhaps not, dear boy, but you forget we’ve only 
just met.” And then Jessica smiled graciously upon her 
husband. 

“What would you like ?” she asked. 

It was done on purpose—of course—a bit of bravado 
and he knew it. 

“Whatever you like, Mrs. Forsyth. A musician should 
always play what he feels most in the mood for.” 

Whether she felt in the mood for what she played, we 
cannot tell for she has not taken us into her confidence; 
but it was very modern, very gay, and rather provocative. 

And as she played the sun gradually faded into a 
thousand tender colours while dark shadows crept among 
the rafters and gathered in the corners, stealthily feeling 
their way like a silent band of ghosts who only ventured 
out by night. 

The player changed into a curious tuneless melody, one 
of those strange outpourings of the Zeitgeist—music that 
broke all the old rules, and yet kept the spirit of the law. 

And Desmond, watching the boy hovering round his 
mother could scarcely keep from crying out “Thou art 
my beloved son.” 


WHIRLWIND 


33 i 


Everything explained itself now. The instant mutual 
liking, the friendship that had blossomed so spontan¬ 
eously, the affection so speedily born of that friendship, 
all this stood in no need of unravelling now. 

And the music went on, softly and often so slowly it 
seemed to pass into silence. The shadows gathered 
courage and came further and further into the room. 
Then all the garden fell away, retreating from the house, 
and all its glory faded with that last yellow gleam con¬ 
tracting in the west. And Desmond looked with eyes of 
love upon the young, slim boy who was his very own 
flesh and blood. 

And as Desmond watched, the problem before him 
seemed to grow almost impossible of solution. If he 
claimed his son, he would have to denounce the mother. 
If he divorced the faithless wife, it would surely almost 
break his boy’s heart. Then there were Margaret and 
Katie, whose fate seemed bound up with that of this 
woman, and in a short time they would be in that very 
room, and Aylmer would introduce with pride “My 
mother. And Desmond could picture how perfectly 
Jessica would play her part. 

She went on playing, and, musician that she was, al¬ 
most forgot her surroundings in the music that she loved 
so well. 

She forgot she was in an old English house, forgot 
even Desmond and her boy’s hero-worship of him. She 
only knew Aylmer would accept the post she had come to 
offer and would make his home with her away in the 
rampant gorgeousness of blazing Italy, where little 
draughts and puffs of wind don’t come sneaking round 
corners to take one unawares. 

Even then she felt a little draught. Mrs. Pritchard 


332 


WHIRLWIND 


was the cause thereof. She had entered quietly with a 
card for Desmond, or a letter, or something that lay upon 
a salver. 

“The gentleman would like to see you, Sir Desmond. 

Desmond took the card and read the name engraved on 
it: “Mr. Felix Willoughby.” 

Softly the notes went on falling, telling their tale of 
love and passion, singing of mountains, forest and 
stream, the great waterfalls, and long hot summer nights. 

* In the darkness Aylmer’s white clad figure loomed out 
somewhat like a ghost as he leaned upon the piano, and 
looked down on the black robed figure of his mother 
who merged more and more into the gathering darkness. 

“What shall I tell the gentleman?” 

Mrs. Pritchard was impatient to get back to her 
kitchen, and that “something extra” she had decreed. 

“Tell Mr. Willoughby I am sorry I cannot see him 
now. Say I will write, when I have quite decided what to 
do.” 

The music still went on, still rose and fell and told its 
tale of love and passion, singing of mountains, forest and 
stream, and Desmond remembered a certain letter that 
lay forgotten in his pocket and the iron entered into his 
very soul. 


XXIX 

Thus did this happily re-united household pass the 
time in what was surely a truly ideal fashion. 

The wife and mother entertained her family with her 
delightful talent, her son devoured her with eyes of love, 
while the husband and father sat wrapt in the music that 
lovely and accomplished woman played. 

What a scene of domestic felicity! How English! 
How inspiring! 

But let us follow our trio up Aylmer’s stairs, and see 
what they are really like when the masks and make-up are 
off. 

To begin with Jessica. That spotless matron had ceased 
to feel much anxiety on account of her husband. She 
could not see what he could hope “to gain” by telling 
Aylmer the truth. And if there was nothing “to be 
gained” why on earth should he (or anyone else for that 
matter) bother to do a disagreeable thing? Such was 
Jessica’s way of looking at matters. Desmond had been 
a very good friend to Aylmer, and might continue in that 
capacity if he liked. 

“What has he to gain by any other?” she asked her¬ 
self. “Surely we two can effect some arrangement?” 

But, dear Jessica, some people are so organised that 
justice sways them more than any hope of gain. And 


333 


334 


WHIRLWIND 


you didn’t know your boy was in love with a charming 
girl, or your husband thinking about divorce and re¬ 
marriage with another lady, the very antithesis of your ¬ 
self. Had you known all this, I don’t think you would 
have felt quite so confident and secure. 

But she felt certain some arrangement could be made 
and the truth kept from Aylmer. No mischief had been 
done so far. All she needed was Desmond’s promise to 
hold his tongue. She would certainly persuade Aylmer 
to go back with her. She had inducements to offer, very 
great inducements. She felt very pleased with herself 
as she thought things over. 

Now in the next room Aylmer had been whistling and 
singing away, filling the cottage with merry, if not always 
very tuneful, song. Jessica had rejoiced to hear it, not . 
onlv because it betrayed the boy’s happy state of mind, but 
also because she hoped it would not be without its effect 
upon his father. 

Who could have the heart to shatter so much happi¬ 
ness? 

Yes, it all looked very simple, and from her point of 
view it certainly was. But then you see she was com¬ 
pletely ignorant of the one or two little complications 
that have crept (and I can’t think how) into this ambling 
narrative of the countryside. 

Desmond had indeed heard young Aylmer whistling 
and very well he understood the meaning thereof. It 
certainly made the solution of his problem a good deal 
harder. 

That “right thing to do,” which Jessica disregarded in 
so characteristically light-hearted a fashion, had followed 
him upstairs and now sat on the edge of the bed dangling 
its legs and sniggering in Desmond’s face. 



WHIRLWIND 


335 


Aren t I a funny fellow ?” it cried. a Don’t you wish 
I d take the mask off my face and show you what I really 
am?” 

He enjoyed himself immensely did Mr. Right Thing 
To Do. He,had a thousand tricks, and so chameleon-like 
a nature, Desmond found it impossible to decide what 
manner of thing he was. 

‘T cannot prevent these people coming to-night, and 
I’m certainly not going to make a scandal. But should 
Aylmer remain in ignorance ? Suppose I let her go ? Can 
I, the instant her back is turned, sue for a divorce? 
Hardly! One doesn’t do that to any woman. If I 
divorce her Aylmer must learn the truth. Well, I sup¬ 
pose it would be a knock-out blow. Yet if there is any¬ 
thing serious between him and Katie, then I’m in honour 
bound to tell her people.” 

Aylmer’s guests arrived in good time, prepared to be 
friendly, even cordial, and when they met Mrs. Forsyth, 
the cordiality expanded into something nearly approach¬ 
ing warmth. 

For Jessica intended her boy’s party to be a success. 
These six people were old friends, and she had the diffi¬ 
cult task of fitting at once into an already completed com¬ 
pany. But that troubled her little. It was Desmond she 
feared might prove a wet blanket. 

So the hostess (I suppose she was hostess?) set forth 
to be as captivating as she knew how. Never had she 
taken such trouble. Even when the Prince of Thrace first 
dined at her house she had not exerted herself so greatly. 
But Jessica was really desirous these people should en¬ 
joy themselves, and she wanted her boy to be pleased with 
the part his mother played. She was very grateful to 
them also. Well did she know that type of aristocracy. 


336 


WHIRLWIND 


In just that milieu she would have placed her son, and 
very prettily, very gracefully, had she thanked the brother 
and sister for their kindness “to my boy.” 

And, when they sat round the table, it looked like be¬ 
ing a very happy party. 

Margaret could never be jealous of any woman, and 
readily confessed she had never met anyone better bred, 
or better turned out, or indeed, more captivating than 
Mrs. Forsyth, while Katie could hardly take her eyes off 
this dazzling person. She was so young herself there 
could be no question of rivalry with the elder woman, 
besides, was she not Aylmer’s mother and therefore a 
woman apart? 

Dalison, who had been prepared to be a little critical, 
was possibly the first to fall a victim. As to Fell, well, 
he and Jessica had talked music before dinner and found 
their tastes agreed, so she had no difficulty where he was 
concerned. But how in the world did she know how to 
draw out the Squire so that he shone as the sun at noon¬ 
day ? And how did she know the things that most inter¬ 
ested Margaret? 

Goodness knows! But she had a genius for that sort 
of thing. 

Desmond, watching her turn so easily from one to the 
other, now speaking to Fell, and then drawing Margaret 
into their talk, not neglecting the Squire either, and even 
(with oh! what a flattering smile) asking Katie what 
she thought—Desmond, watching this, remembered a 
certain dinner party given in honour of his wife (oh! 
thousands of years ago), and as he thought thereon he 
smiled! 

Just in that way had she turned from one to the other 
of her new relations, just in that same confident, grace- 


WHIRLWIND 


337 


ful manner had she smiled on (and subjugated) Aunt 
Elinor. Even so had she drawn out Tom, and reduced 
Cousin Hugh to willing servitude. 

Yes, she had met Puccini; once, in Vienna. It had 
been very interesting, and the Viennese opera, taking it 
all round, was certainly one of the best in the world. 
The orchestra, quite perfect. Perhaps they lacked really 
great voices but the performances were wonderfully bal¬ 
anced. No! On the whole she had been disappointed 
in the Metropolitan, New York. The Americans were still 
a little too fond of noise. An American woman who was 
supposed to be musical had said to her, “We have the 
biggest orchestra and the biggest theatre. It’s no good 
sending us anything but the biggest voices.” “And you 
know,” continued Jessica, “I hope it wasn’t very rude 
but I couldn’t help saying ‘What a lot of charming talent 
you must lose.’ ” 

From music in America she turned to life in America. 

But she didn’t stay long in the States, she travelled 
back to Europe (almost by aeroplane, she got there so 
quickly) and on purpose to enable her fellow guests to 
talk besides asking questions. 

“I wonder if you met—oh! but you must have—a 
very dear friend of ours, Ermyntrude Fitz Howard,” 
asked Margaret. “She is nearly always in Florence.” 

This was rather a jar. Lady Ermyntrude was so well 
known that it was quite unnecessary to mention the name 
of her villa or where it was. Both were equally famous, 
the one for her parties, the other for its magnificence. 
Jessica knew her ladyship by name, of course, and the 
villa too, by name! which was about all she was likely 
to know of either. 

“Unfortunately, Lady Ermyntrude was away when I 


338 


WHIRLWIND 


was in Florence. So I never met her,” said Jessica, who 
knew quite well she had no more chance of meeting Lady 
Ermyntrude than she had of being crowned Queen of 
England. “I was so sorry. She has the Villa Boccaccio, 
hasn’t she? I hear it’s quite wonderful.” And feeling 
the ice of Florence rather thin she skated gracefully off to 
Siena. Siena was not far and provided much food for 
conversation; but, best of all, there were no exclusive 
social pillars there to stumble up against. 

But even when she talked about Siena she decided it 
was quite time Desmond took his share of talk, so she 
told a little story concerning the Fascisti of that town 
(at least, she adapted a story that really belonged to 
Florence), and thus came to Italian politics and threw 
the ball to Desmond. She knew nothing about politics 
herself. To her mind politics were invented to keep un¬ 
popular statesmen in office. However, the Squire took 
up the cudgels and very soon he and Desmond were argu¬ 
ing to their hearts’ content. 

But Jessica was careful to avoid places like Florence 
or Rome or Cannes in the future. 

And Desmond did not get much chance to keep silent, 
even had he wished. Jessica frequently appealed to him. 
“You must know better than I,” or “What do you think, 
Sir Desmond?” How funny it sounded to call him Sir 
Desmond! Jessica rather enjoyed it, and did it again. 
While to herself she said: “Heavens! if only these 
people knew!” 

“I wonder if our host is going to follow up his ex¬ 
cellent food with coffee,” said the host’s mother later on. 
“And if so, don’t you think it would be pleasanter out¬ 
side?” she added, turning to Margaret. Margaret 
thought it would be much pleasanter outside and so with a 


WHIRLWIND 


339 


little smile and nod to each other, the two ladies gave the 
sign that dinner was over. 

“That’s through all right, anyway,” was Jessica’s 
mental comment, as she followed Margaret through the 
barn and out on to the loggia. 

The men had no wish to sit over their port alone 
and very soon followed to find Margaret and Jessica in 
close confabulation as though they had been bosom 
friends for years. 

Aylmer caught sight of Katie’s white frock in the dis¬ 
tance (she had wandered off, not being interested in her 
elders’ conversation) and, on the excuse of some mes¬ 
sage to Mrs. Pritchard, slipped away. 

Katie had really intended returning to the house be¬ 
fore the men came out; and thought Aylmer might 
imagine she had strolled away on purpose to give him 
that opening she knew he was waiting for. She was a 
little annoyed therefore, to see him striding down the 
path towards her. But she liked to feel he was looking 
for her, and I can’t say she tried to hide very much. 

“Isn’t my mother splendid?” 

It didn’t sound exactly like a lover’s talk, and Katie 
wondered whether she felt pleased or disappointed. 

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” she 
answered cordially. 

“And she’s as good as she is beautiful.” 

“And as charming as both.” 

After which brilliant prelude, a little pause! Aylmer 
felt awkward and was certain he looked an idiot. Now, 
the young lady was thinking “how nice he looked in his 
dinner jacket and how well he held himself.” And she 
had never noticed before his voice had such deep tones. 
And while they stood thus—awkwardly enough (but Ayl- 


340 


whirlwind! 


mer any way was new to this sort of thing)—came from 
the cottage, sweetly and fully, floating out surely and 
firmly on the summer night the sound of a violin played 
by a master hand. 

There could be no doubt about that. The first long 
drawn note, the first sure attack, proclaimed it; and 
everyone of the listeners knew it, and settled down to lis¬ 
ten to music that amateurs seldom hear. Fell accom¬ 
panied. No great executant, he had that comprehension 
that is the birthright of the born accompanist. Before 
two bars were over Jessica knew she had nothing to fear. 
Mistakes he might make, but he would follow, linger 
when she lingered, hurry when she hurried, in fact give 
her all the support she needed. So she decided to give of 
her very best that night. She liked the doctor. He was 
steady and wise and broad-minded—oh, she had not read 
men for twenty years without learning to sum up a 
simple soul like our doctor at a glance. He was just the 
elder companion she would like her boy to have. Alto¬ 
gether she began to feel quite fond of everybody—she 
was ever a friendly soul. 

“Pm sure we shall be missed/’ said Katie. 

“What of it? Isn’t it topping out here?” 

“I’d love to live always in the country,” Aylmer con¬ 
tinued presently. 

“But your work is in London. Some day you’ll go into 
Parliament and become Prime Minister.” 

“To be heckled by one’s own party and kicked by all 
the others.” 

“Don’t laugh! No one should laugh at his own work.” 

“I wasn’t laughing. I love my work. But I’d love it 
much more if I had someone to work for.” 

Having once plunged in, Aylmer struck boldly for the 


^WHIRLWIND 34I 

shore, and before Katie realised the eventful moment 
had come, Aylmer had both her hands in his and was 
pleading eloquently, peremptorily. 

Of course heaps of men love you, lots of them are 
rich, like Aldershot, but all rolled into one can’t love as 
I do-” 

“Aylmer—please-” 

“It is yes—isn’t it?” 

“Let me go—someone’s coming.” 

Someone was coming and Katie knew it! She couldn’t 
free herself, neither did she want to; yet she had no 
wish to be seen by anyone either. 

“Katie! Say yes!” 

“Yes,” she answered, quite forgetful of the footsteps 
very close upon them now; footsteps that belonged to 
two astonished people who felt horribly intrusive on these 
singular proceedings. 

“My dears!” 

It was Margaret spoke first. Under cover of the music, 
she had spoken to Ralph about the young people, and the 
two had gone apart and had stumbled on the very pos¬ 
sibility they had been discussing. 

“My dears!” 

But there was only one “dear” before them now! 
Katie had slipped away and left Aylmer to do the best he 
could alone. 

“We were taking a little turn,” said Margaret, with the 
kindly thought to give the boy time. “Your mother’s 
music makes this lovely night more wonderful, and—er 

and here we are,” she concluded somewhat obviously. 

Yes, said Ralph—“and—and—er—here are you and 
—wasn’t Katie somewhere here also ?” 

—I—was just—er showing her our carnations and 



342 


WHIRLWIND 


roses and things,” said Aylmer. “We’re awfully proud 
of them. Mrs. Pritchard puts all the old tea leaves and 
soot she can find to the roots. 

“And was that all you and Katie could find to talk 

about?” 

“No, sir, it wasn’t. I told her I loved her and wanted 
her for my wife.” 

It was very bravely, very gallantly done in the end, 
and both the elders felt no one could have spoken more 
creditably. But though he was somewhat prepared to 
hear such words, Ralph was very much taken aback when 
he did hear them. 

“Marry,” cried the worthy fellow, gazing round him 
in earnest search for a chair. “Let me sit down! 

“You’re not going to say 'no,’ are you, sir?” 

There was such anxiety in the voice that yet tried hard 
to be steady and normal, the squire felt he was being 
taken at a disadvantage. At heart he was the kindliest 
soul and would not hurt a fly before that fly had worried 
him into desperation. And this evening he was far from 
feeling worried; indeed, he had seldom found himself in 
so genial a mood. The dinner, though simple, had been 
excellent, the wine far better than his own (as well it 
might be, Desmond having bought up a certain famous 
cellar, half of which he had presented to Aylmer). He 
had met a woman who had not only listened to him but 
had made him talk better than he had known himself talk 
for years. So Aylmer’s plea fell on fruitful soil, and 
Ralph hastened to reassure him. 

“No! No, my boy. No! Certainly not,” he said 
quickly, and then instantly began to hedge. “That is— 
not all at once!” 

“Thank you! Thanks awfully!” 


WHIRLWIND 


343 


Exactly what he was being thanked for the Squire 
would very much have liked to know. Was this young 
man thanking him because his suit had not been peremp¬ 
torily refused? Or was he saying thank you because he 
took it for granted consent had been given? Then the 
Squire felt it was rather hard that this thing should have 
happened to him while he was Aylmer’s guest. It put 
him at a disadvantage which he would not have felt in 
his own house, and gave him a sense of “being had.” 
He felt fussed and moved restlessly in his seat. 

“This is a most uncomfortable chair,” he said with 
more candour than politeness. He rose as he spoke and 
crossed over to where an extremely hard, if picturesque, 
stone seat circled an old apple tree, near the edge of the 
lawn. 

“We mustn’t be hasty, must we?” he continued, finding 
some relief in the change of position. “There’s a great 
deal to be considered.” 

“Shall I leave you and look for Katie?” Margaret sug¬ 
gested. 

“Oh, please don’t go, Miss Dalison. Of course, you 
know I’m not rich, but no one could care more than I 
do-” 

“Yes! Yes! I’m sure! Quite sure!” the Squire 
interrupted. 

The question of money did not particularly interest 
him. There were other far more vital matters to be 
thought about. 

“And I am the last to stand in the way of her happi¬ 
ness, but still, there are things, that is—you understand 
me.” He wound up and looked at Margaret for help. 

“Sir Desmond thinks so highly of you, and that of 
course carries great weight with us.” 



344 


WHIRLWIND 


But the Squire had begun to fidget again. Margaret 
knew the sort of questions he wanted asked perfectly. 
They had discussed them only that evening. They were 
questions that, now it had come to framing them, he 
considered Margaret’s “womanly tact” would find the 
right expressions for at once. But instead of using that 
heavenly gift, she was talking entirely beyond the point. 

“Yes! Yes!” he interrupted. “But that is not exactly 
what I meant. I—er—have you—I have met some For- 
syths at-” 

But Aylmer saw what was coming. The inevitable 
question, “Who the devil are you?” 

It was not being put so crudely, but Aylmer felt that 
had the Squire spoken as he would have liked to speak, 
“Who the devil are you?” was exactly what he would 
have said. 

“They were no relations of mine. I haven’t any,” 
Aylmer answered, almost with defiance. “If it’s my 
family you want to know about I’d better tell you straight 
away I don’t believe I’ve any relations m the world ex¬ 
cept my mother! Well! What about it? Sir Desmond 
doesn’t seem to think it matters!” 

It was well delivered, straight from the shoulder. He 
owned himself a nobody and stood before them, a 
straightforward, sincere lad, only desirous to be taken on 
his merits. 

But before Ralph parted with such a treasure as Katie, 
even Aylmer acknowledged he had every right to know 
a little more. After all, he had wondered himself oc¬ 
casionally what tendencies he might inherit! From an 
eugenic point of view the Dalisons might well think the 
prospect somewhat dubious. 

“You musn’t misunderstand me,” said the Squire, glad 


WHIRLWIND 


345 


to have got the worst over. “After all, there is no hurry, 
doubtless your mother a most delightful mother too— 
can tell me all that is necessary. Bless my soul I” con¬ 
tinued the amiable and astonished man. “Katie was only 
a baby yesterday. It seems incredible that anyone should 
be in love at her age, and of course I only want to be 
kind.” (The Squire felt he was being borne away by 
some unknown current but could perceive no way of 
steering his craft back to safety. The stone seat was 
proving uncommonly hard, really extraordinarily hard. 
Margaret looked far more comfortable in the chair he 
had vacated, but he could not very well ask her to give it 
up.) 

“If only he could show a healthy, honest, yeoman 
stock, I shouldn’t care,” said he, in his perturbed mind. 
“But how can I give my girl to someone who has merely 
—merely—told me he loved her?” 

“You see,” he continued aloud, “I know so little of 
you, Oh! What I do know is quite satisfactory—most 
delightful—only—well, it doesn’t go very far. Mar¬ 
garet,” he wound up at last, getting himself off a seat 
and out of a situation that both caused him great dis¬ 
comfort. “On second thoughts, I will look for Katie. 
You will express my meaning more concisely than I can 

myself—and—and—dear me-,” he added, gazing 

round about him—“Dear me! Yes! Indeed! Mrs. 
Pritchard’s carnations do great credit to her soot, very 
great credit indeed.” 

And thus with considerable easing of his mind Ralph 
took himself from a scene he had found both painful and 
difficult. He left the situation entirely to Margaret and 
quieted his conscience (that shouted “Coward” in a most 
unseemly manner), with the thought of how “her wo- 


WHIRLWIND 


346 

manly tact” would surely bring matters to a right conclu- 
sion. 

But Margaret knew perfectly well he had left her to do 
what he lacked sufficient courage to do himself. „ 

“IVe your good wishes anyway, Miss Dalison.” 

“You have my good wishes always,” said Margaret. 
“But—well, dear boy, you belong to a different creed to 

ours.” # . . , 

“I shouldn’t dream of interfering with Katie s re¬ 
ligion. After all, this is the twentieth century, not the 
sixteenth-” 

“That is so, of course.” But Margaret remembered 
that a Catholic had always been master at Fordcombe. 
“Have you ever been told how like you are to Sir Des¬ 
mond?” she said suddenly. 

“I’m supposed to be like my mother. 

“But you are curiously like him too.” 

Margaret spoke almost to herself as though her 
thoughts were not about Aylmer or Katie or anything 
to do with the present time. She thought that love had 
come to these two while still they stood on the threshold 
of their lives. Love had met love and was not forced to 
shiver in the cold, or take up his daily burden all alone. 
Why was it? Was it quite just? 

Yet while she seemed to rebel a tender love for the 
love she felt in the boy and joy in the beauty thereof, 
swept suddenly over her, carrying her right out of herself. 

“Oh, you two children,” she cried. “You’re both ab¬ 
surdly young! What will your mother say?” 

A confident laugh that was a boyish echo of the 
mother’s answered her. 

“She’d agree to anything I wanted,” Aylmer said con¬ 
fidently. 



WHIRLWIND 


347 

“Yes, I can understand that. And there’s no one else 
to interfere?” 

“How kindly you put it,” he answered, gratefully. 
“I’ve never heard of a solitary relative.” 

The music had stopped almost abruptly, that music 
without form, yet not formless, had ended almost pain¬ 
fully. It raised a picture of some lofty shrine once the 
crown of some great capital, now desecrated and deserted, 
untended, unserved by acolyte or priest. Where once the 
fretted roof had been the feet of the winds could pass. 
Where suppliants once knelt the wolf had found a place, 
and the owls’ hoot alone was heard where once hymns 
rose triumphantly to Heaven. 

As Margaret heard the last bars of that hopeless music, 
so desolate, so forlorn, as of something fallen far from 
greatness, there suddenly came to her the sense of com¬ 
plete loneliness, like darkness falling in midday. For the 
moment this intense loneliness cut like a knife; a cold 
knife, icy cold. Whence came it? Wherefore? For a 
moment it was unbearable—then passed—whence ?— 
whither? 

And to Desmond also the music had spoken. Spoken 
of all the years gone by, and the strife and the storm and 
the stress of them. The music spun pictures of desolate 
shores and sullen seas, and ships adrift and rafts heaped 
with dying men. Men mad with thirst upon a thirsty sea, 
wherein great fishes swam and bided for their time. Men 
mad with thirst with wild protruding eyes and mumbling 
words no earthly language knew. 

And then he thought of battlefields and what he’d 
seen and heard of the great war. He heard the distant 
crackling of artillery; the sniper’s solitary shot after the 
victory. He saw a disembowelled man, half crazed, 


348 ^WHIRLWIND 

dragging his body (torn as by a wild beast) a little way, 
to steal another’s water, lapping the blood of an enemy, 
the furnaces of hell hot within him. And on the melan¬ 
choly music passed in hopeless, helpless apathy, since 
there was nothing to be done and nowhere was there any 
hope. 

There was nothing but silence on the plain, the silence 
of some great convulsion suddenly struck mute, and piles 
of bodies, putrefying, stinking, piles on piles, north, 
south, east and west, with horrid wounds, grinning 
mouths, and twisted faces. Horribly contorted figures 
mixed with horses in the last agony, and mercilessly 
mutilated. And, over all, the silence that was curses 
petrified; while a cold, inquisitive moon came slowly out 
and looked around and gloated. 

Life seemed very like his visionary battlefield, strewn 
with the bodies of those who had fought and failed, 
fought for what they hardly knew and failed since fate 
intended that they should fail, having no further use for 
them at all. Desmond saw a face among the dying, very 
like his own, and heard a voice, that surely must be his, 
cry “Margaret,” and as he heard, he felt an agony as of 
all pain that stabbed him with one relentless thrust, then 
left him, like one of the wounded in his own vision, 
agonising on his battlefield. 

Margaret moved quickly down the garden. The pain 
was gone, she was herself and normal. But the strange 
experience had not left her quite untouched, nor could she 
speak to Aylmer as though she had felt nothing. 

She turned away, pointing to a dim figure in the dis¬ 
tance. 

“That must be Katie,” she said. “Won’t you go to 
her?” 


WHIRLWIND 


349 


And Aylmer left her. From whence could that icy 
cold have come? And why to her? Was Desmond suf¬ 
fering? And suffering so terribly that she could feel it 
even in that placid, pretty place? Ah, what would she 
give—even unto the whole world—could she have the 
right to tend him in his sorrow and comfort him in his 
grief. 

And then she caught a glimpse of Aylmer in the dis¬ 
tance, at that moment going with Katie hand in hand. 
And in her bitterness she cried: “Has love only eyes for 
youth that he should go to those two children and leave 
me so pitilessly to my loneliness?” 


XXX 

There was no more music. The player had put down 
her fiddle, for the music she had just made held a special 
appeal and she was always loath to play anything after it. 

‘That was wonderful,” said Fell. “Is it really over?” 

“I think you’ve had enough,” she smiled. 

“But you go to-morrow! Or rather, must you really?” 

She shrugged her shoulders a little as she answered: 

“I’m a confirmed wanderer. Now you are all dear, 
restful, stay-at-home people. Do you know, just now I 
could almost envy you?” 

Fell looked up at the beautiful figure leaning against 
the piano and thought: 

“She ought to have someone to take care of her.” 

By which it may appear that the confirmed bachelor 
was falling a little in love with our lady of bewitchments. 
But men so often thought that she ought to have some¬ 
one to take care of her! 

But she was not thinking of him, nor of Desmond, 
and not even of Aylmer; for the music was yet with her, 
and she was a little tired from the emotion it had roused. 
For music takes toll of the performer as well as the lis¬ 
tener. I believe as she stood in the quiet of that sum¬ 
mer night she was thinking how there was certainly a 
great tranquillity and peace about her. 


35o 


WHIRLWIND 


35i 


“There is something extraordinarily well-bred about it 
all. If I had started life in this manner I think I should 
have been happy.” 

But Fell was talking—saying something she hadn’t 
heard. She clutched desperately at her attention and 
gathered he was discussing the English weather. 

“Oh, it’s not always like this,” she said. 

“No, indeed, sometimes it blows or rains. It has even 
been known to snow.” 

Jessica laughed and gave a funny little shudder. 

“What an awful prospect. Don’t you get terribly 
moped ?” 

“Oh no. Home, sweet home has its charm, you know. 
I wish you’d try it. But I fear it wouldn’t be in a coun¬ 
try like this.” 

“Who knows?” she said, and there was a little wist¬ 
ful expression in both face and voice. “Sometimes even 
I feel a little lonely, a little as though your ‘Home, sweet 
home’ may be something more than a pretty sentiment.” 

Fell swore afterwards there had been tears in her 
eyes as she spoke, and very likely he was right. At the 
moment she was certainly sincere. She could imagine life 
at Fordcombe very beautiful—not so exciting as the one 
she had led hitherto, but infinitely more dignified. She 
had foreshadowed some similar existence years ago when 
she had owned a little white house in the south, and she 
wondered, as she remembered, who might be living there 
now. 

But all Fell realised was that here was a very sweet 
woman who played like a musician and said she was 
rather lonely. 

“I think as a plain man ...” 

“Well? Why don’t you go on?” 


352 


WHIRLWIND 


“I wonder what you would say if I tried to persuade 
you ?” 

A little not unkindly laugh answered him and Jessica 
moved towards the garden. But as she went she turned 
with that indescribable tilt of her head to say a word over 
her shoulder. (Oh! Jessica, how could you!) But I 
don’t think she did it purposely—not that time. If the 
habit of years proved too strong, was she to blame for 
that ? Habit is second nature, and doubtless she was quite 
ignorant she had trotted out a pet effect for the country 
doctor’s benefit. 

“You’re awfully kind,” Jessica said, letting her hand 
rest on his arm, and thereby reducing him to abject 
slavery. “And you’ve been such a good friend to Ayl¬ 
mer. Boys of his age want a friend like you.” 

And Fell swore he would do anything on earth for the 
boy. 

“I’m so glad,” and then Fell grovelled in his soul and 
swore to erect a shrine sacred to one woman. 

“But I never met so many charming people all at once 
before. Mr. Dalison’s a dear, and his sister too.” 

“Another stay-at-home for which our poor should be 
devoutly thankful.” 

“Yes, I can imagine that.” And then: “A great 
friend of Sir Desmond’s?” she added. 

“Well, yes, I suppose so. Old friends anyway.” 

“I see,” she said, in a singularly dry voice. 

Fell had put a rather disagreeable thought into her 
mind; one that might, if there were any truth in it, prove 
a nuisance. 

“And here she is. Miss Dalison, didn’t Aylmer tell 
me you sang? I’ve monopolised the piano shamefully.” 

“Your beautiful music has quite put me out of con- 


WHIRLWIND 


353 


ceit with mine. How wonderful this modern music is.” 

I play a good deal of the old too. It s good for one. 
Modern stuff is apt to run to the emotional. But do 
sing. It might chase the gloom from Sir Desmond’s 
brow. He s hardly spoken the whole evening.” 

Margaret smiled. 

Politics are rather too exciting just now perhaps. 
But you wouldn t know that, you’ve been away so long.” 

Jessica was far from being interested in politics, and 
wanted to question Margaret. 

“Didn’t I hear you had ordered him a rest?” she asked 
the doctor. “You might go and cheer him up. He’s 
over there. I think you should,” she added as Fell yet 
hesitated. 

“If you order me ... ” 

“I command.” 

So Fell left the women together and crossed over to 
Desmond. 

Let us sit down,” said Mrs. Forsyth, choosing an 
easy chair and indicating another beside it. “You must 
let me thank you again for all your kindness to my boy.” 

“Oh no, boys always rather appeal to me, and yours is 
so particularly charming and clever. Sir Desmond 
prophesies great things for him.” 

For a moment Margaret wondered whether this was a 
good opportunity to put those few questions she had in 
her mind regarding the Forsyth family. But on second 
thoughts she concluded it was hardly the time or place. 

“That is very flattering,” Jessica answered. “Sir Des¬ 
mond Antrobus is an old friend of yours, I think.” 

“Yes, a very old friend.” 

“He is very silent to-night,” the graceful, elegant Mrs. 
Forsyth continued, looking across to where Fell and 


354 


WHIRLWIND 


Antrobus had been joined by Aylmer and Katie. “He 
belies his reputation/’ 

“I think he’s tired. He has a very responsible posi¬ 
tion.” 

“Exactly, and doubtless he comes to you for a little 
sympathy sometimes. Oh, but why not?” she added in 
reply to some little demur from Margaret. “It is only 
natural, such old friends as you are.” 

The party was now completed by the Squire, who came 
trotting down the path as Jessica was thinking how to 
dispose gracefully of Margaret, having discovered all 
she wanted to know about the lady’s friendship with 
Desmond. 

When the Squire had elected to look for Katie he had 
really intended only to keep out of her way. He opined 
neither of them wanted to meet just then so he returned 
to the house by the most moonlit spots, knowing that 
so they could avoid each other without appearing to do so. 

It was with real relief he found himself again with 
people whose antecedents he need not scrutinise, and who 
could have no intention whatever of marrying with his 
daughter. And here, too, was that delightful Mrs. For¬ 
syth! Life was smooth, life was good again; and he 
fully capable of enjoying it. 

“So this beautiful night has tempted you out, Mrs. 
Forsyth?” he said, pulling a chair up to her side. 

“Yes,” answered Aylmer, who was not very far off. 
“To-night she thinks she might almost be in Italy.” 

“It’s years and years since I was there!” sighed the 
Squire. 

Jessica proceeded to enlighten him still further on the 
present condition of that country, while Margaret 
joined the group at the other end of the loggia. 


WHIRLWIND 


355 


But Jessica soon got bored with continually saying: 

“Ah, but it’s not like that now -,” or “Yes, it must 

have been delightful in those days, but of course now 

-,” or “There’s a train there and several large hotels. 

Oh, it’s quite a smart place now .” Besides, she was rather 
afraid lest he should ask awkward questions about her 
acquaintances abroad, and she couldn’t be perpetually 
saying that all the people she ought to know and didn’t, 
had either died or left. Then it occurred to this mirror of 
tact that it might be well to propitiate Miss Dalison and 
that Aylmer should ask for a little of that lady’s music. 
Then when it was over Jessica herself would come in 
with compliments and request for more. She could do 
that sort of thing to perfection—no one better—and she 
knew it. 

So she rose with a word of explanation to the Squire 
and called to her son. 

But Aylmer was very occupied telling Katie over again 
all the things he had told her before, and didn’t hear his 
mother. And then she noticed—well, something a mother 
would notice very quickly—something, however, Jessica 
had never calculated on being called upon to notice. 

Good heavens! What was there in the air of the place 
people found so stimulating? But she wouldn’t spoil 
his fun. If he wanted to flirt, let him. So she ap¬ 
pealed to Fell and asked him if he possessed no parlour 
tricks. 

“I could frivol like a butterfly,” answered he, coming 
nearer his divinity. “But to-night I prefer to hover like 
a bee about a rose.” 

In the general laugh that greeted this inane remark 
(which the Squire exclaimed should have been left for 
him to make), Jessica’s spontaneous laugh rang out mer- 




356 


WHIRLWIND 


rily. She was mightily amused! But the laugh ended in 
a little cough, and this time Aylmer heard it. 

“You’re catching cold, mother. Where’s your wrap?” 

“On the piano.” 

And the boy hurried in to fetch it. 

“There’s a breeze getting up and you’re not used to 
our changeable climate,” said Fell, with a little air of 
authority, begotten of being a doctor. “Hadn’t you bet¬ 
ter go in?” 

“If I do this when it’s fine, what should I do when 
it’s raining and snowing and misting?” Jessica laughed. 

“Perhaps we shall be able to persuade you to play 
again,” said Katie, rather shyly. 

Jessica turned to look at her, and, this time very care¬ 
fully. Yes, a very pretty, well-bred girl, and the face 
was sensible too—distinctly the child was attractive. 

And Jessica smiled very kindly upon her, as on one 
her darling delighted to honour, if only with a mild flirta¬ 
tion. 

“And you can listen from the garden! Music and 
moonbeams-’ ’ 

But at that instant Aylmer came out of the house and 
put the wrap round his mother’s shoulders. 

“See what a careful son I have,” she laughed as she 
turned to re-enter the house. 

Now, as she went, she noticed that Desmond lingered, 
and it occurred to her that his obvious avoidance of her 
(or what she took to be his avoidance) might be noticed 
by the rest of the party and considered odd. So she 
paused on the steps, as the others passed in, and called 
as though she remembered something she had forgotten to 
say. 

“Oh! Sir Desmond!” 



WHIRLWIND 


357 


“Don’t you think,” she said, dropping her voice so 
that only he should hear. “It would be better to at least 
keep up the fiction of good manners between us? You’ve 
hardly spoken to me once.” 

“I shall be very glad to do so, when the others are 
gone.” 

It was a direct challenge, and as that she accepted it. 
She had little fear as to the result. All her weapons were 
burnished. This was a call to battle and she would an¬ 
swer. ' 

“Very well.” 

Aylmer called at the moment and Fell might be heard 
at the piano. “At once, dear boy,” and then she gave Des¬ 
mond her dazzling smile and in a clear, high voice said 
“So sorry you can’t give him a longer holiday.” 

But that last was said because she had caught a glimpse 
of Margaret in the garden and thought it well to add 
those few words. She wondered to herself, was it only 
a sentimental friendship or no? She rather thought the 
former. She couldn’t imagine a grande passion in that 
stuffy and highly respectable atmosphere. 

And perhaps we should not err if we infer that our 
Jessica had already grown weary of the quiet beauty and 
settled ease she thought so enviable awhile ago. Or was 
she just a little rattled? Who can tell and what does it 
matter? She was playing and, as always on those oc¬ 
casions, looking magnificent. Let all the world listen, and 
observe. 

Again she had chosen music her audience did not know, 
and again Fell accompanied like one entranced. 

And Desmond, as he watched her, swaying slightly 
with her music, master of her fiddle, master of her audi¬ 
ence, even he—bitter as were his thoughts—would not 


WHIRLWIND 


358 

take back the words he said, crossing the fields one night 
with Fell, “She was the most beautiful thing God ever 
made.” 

Even he was fascinated both by the music and the 
player. 

Yet he had not stood there very long before a voice 
asked softly: “Is anything the matter, Desmond? And 
if so, won’t you tell me?” 

Margaret simply had to speak. She was yet under the 
spell of that strange experience a few moments back and 
was very certain some bad news had reached him, and yet 
he remained so aloof, so self contained, that she put her 
haiid almost timidly on his arm. Only that afternoon he 
had hinted at some grief, some trouble, and she would 
help him if she could. He did not look at her, but still 
stared at the violinist standing in the lighted room. 

He looked unutterly lonely; and was it a trick of the 
moon that made his face look years older than he was? 

“Won’t you tell me, Desmond?” 

Why should he not turn and claim the sympathy that 
stood there waiting at his side with hands outspread and 
running over and waiting to be of use? 

But for the first time in his life Antrobus did not wish 
to speak to Margaret. Perhaps he was afraid, and feared 
what he might say did he accept the gift she was offering 
so readily. Nay, but he feared lest her presence should 
break him down, and so he dared not even look at her. 
He had that before him that would need every atom 
of courage, every particle of strength. 

All the evening he had spent in doubt that had been 
very near to agony. Never before had he found himself 
so placed that he could see no way out. Never before had 
he dwelt in darkness that admitted no gleam of light. 


WHIRLWIND 


359 

And in the end it had all been settled so quickly. Jes¬ 
sica had said, “You’ve hardly spoken to me once.” 

And he had replied instantly, “I shall be very pleased 
to do so when the others are gone.” That was all. 

And now Desmond knew that he would have every¬ 
thing out with Jessica, aye, and with Aylmer too; and on 
the result would depend what he had to say to Margaret. 

He would be just to himself—to Margaret, aye, even 
to Jessica—just, but no more. 

“Mercy! What mercy has she ever shown? ‘They 
who live by the sword shall perish by the sword. And the 
sword that kills is not the material but the spiritual 
weapon that one day turns its point against its bearer’s 
heart.’ I will not be hard, I will not be vindictive. But, 
by God, I will be just.” 

And Margaret whispered almost timidly—lest he mis¬ 
understood her motive—afraid—(oh, surely not of any 
rebuff, Margaret), yes, afraid, that she might fail in 
understanding; but most of all lest she might not ease 
that overburdened mind. 

And that was why Desmond could hardly hear her 
when she whispered, “What is the matter, Desmond? 
Won’t you tell me?” 


XXXI 


At length Desmond turned away from the brilliant 
figure with the violin. 

“If you want to be kind, the kindest thing you can do is 
to leave me alone, Margaret.” The answer was almost 
curt, yet, at that same moment, Desmond had to exercise 
all his self control not to answer as his heart dictated. 

“I beg your pardon. I am sorry.” 

She had come so diffidently, so tenderly, almost as a 
mother to her child, only anxious to help and comfort, 
but he had answered roughly—he did not want her 
sympathy. 

And Desmond knew exactly how she felt. She was 
hurt, grieved. She thought he had failed to understand. 
In reality he only longed to take her in his arms. 

“Don’t go!” The words came like a cry. He hardly 
knew that he had spoken. The words had been wrung 
from him by something outside himself. And instantly 
she recognised the pain in that appeal, and all her resent¬ 
ment fell away while all the woman came into her eyes. 

“Desmond!” 

“At least, don’t go thinking I misunderstand. But— 
I’m afraid of myself. You had better leave me to fight 
it out alone—as a man should. Only, for God’s sake, 
don’t misunderstand.” 

But it was her turn to insist, her turn to step down 
360 


WHIRLWIND 


361 


into the arena and fight, if fighting there was to be. 
There was no diffidence about her now, no fear lest her 
words fail or Desmond misconstrue her meaning. Fear 
vanishes at the first flicker of Truth’s lamp, and Mar¬ 
garet knew herself in the presence of something very- 
real and very big, something she might not grasp even 
when it had been told, but something she had a right to 
know. 

“Tell me all about it. Begin right at the beginning 
and we will see what can be done.” 

She spoke in the most ordinary tone she could. She 
wanted to give him confidence, and already Desmond 
felt the load easier. 

“What a dear woman you are! If I took you at your 
word, I wonder what you’d say.” 

Margaret looked up and smiled, and that smile should 
have given confidence. It showed the happiness she felt 
in helping the man she loved when he was down on his 
luck. And she was happier than she had been, for had 
she not claimed her right to help ? And she would prove 
herself worthy of her privilege. 

“You can have nothing to tell me I ought not to hear. 
I could never believe that even from your own lips. Now, 
what’s it all about ? You know I don’t want to force your 
confidence; but we’ve always talked things out together, 
haven’t we?” 

“I know. And you’re everything that’s kind and good 
and true. And I’m longing to come and tell you-” 

But words failed him, fleeing like hunted things, he had 
no control over one of them. 

And Margaret waited, letting him take his own time, 
wondering what this thing could possibly be that weighed 
so heavily upon him. She thought of everything, finance, 



362 


WHIRLWIND 


politics, but nothing seemed adequate. She knew that 
had he lost all his fortune, even so big a blow would not 
bowl him over as this thing he was struggling so hard 
to tell had evidently done. 

So there was silence between them, and silence, too, 
all round them: only from the house the violin came 
singing. But out where they two stood all was very 
quiet. The breeze had fallen, and no late bird chirped. 
Even the stars stood still, and in that silence Desmond 
found the words to speak. 

“After all, dear, we’re no longer children, you and I, 
I think we can both of us face facts. Well, it’s like this, 
I love you, oh, so dearly, you can’t tell. I love you so. 
But I’m not free. You think I am, everybody does, I 
believe, but I’m not. My wife is still living.” 

The music still went on working out its own device. 
The things in the garden were asleep, and the stars yet 
shone in heaven as though no grave announcement had 
been made that revolutionised the world. Nothing in 
nature cared, it did not count in the great scheme of 
things that in one aching heart a budding hope lay 
bleeding to its death. 

Had Desmond not spoken in quite so cool a voice; 
had his manner been less calm, and the whole thing not 
stated in so prosaic a manner, I say that Margaret would 
not have believed him. But the brutal simplicity of the 
statement, the bald fact so nakedly laid out for her in¬ 
spection, placed before her without disguise, pretension 
or extenuation, claimed her belief. She felt the full force 
of the blow, or thought she did. She fully grasped the 
facts, all of them, and somehow she was not surprised. 
It almost seemed she had expected something of the kind. 
It was not a blinding revelation, but merely the confirming 


WHIRLWIND 


363 


of something already half suspected. She felt a little 
numbed, a little stupid, and unable to say anything, and it 
was curious how unnatural she felt, and how incongru¬ 
ous she seemed there in that peaceful garden; or else it 
was that everything around her was itself out of place. 
She could not decide which it was, but something of that 
sort certainly. And what strange, sad music someone or 
other was playing, surely a very great way off. 

And then she found that she was talking in a voice 
that was curiously calm and steady, and yet that, too, 
sounded a great way off. She found herself listening 
to it, just as she had caught herself listening to that 
strange music someone was playing softly, and a great 
way off. 

“I see. But I didn’t know. I thought she died.” 

And then—oh, then—in a moment, Margaret realised 
that she felt giddy, as though she had been standing on 
the edge of a precipice, looking sheer down thousands 
of feet quite calmly, and getting suddenly dizzy was fall¬ 
ing headlong over. 

“I didn’t know,” she repeated. “I thought she died.” 

“We parted years ago. Ever so long ago.” 

And now the confidence has passed from the woman 
to the man. With the first words he spoke Desmond 
regained his self-control. 

“I’d been living in a fool’s paradise,” he said, “a happy 
one, but a very foolish one. And then I came home one 
day to find she’d gone off with another man, a very 
wealthy man. She didn’t care about a divorce, but I’ve 
ample grounds, and now-” 

“Oh, please! please!” 

It was a very pitiful cry born of a sob and the aching 
pain at her heart. She had thought the blow had fallen, 



364 


WHIRLWIND 


but only now she began to feel the full force of the stun¬ 
ning shock he had dealt her. Little by little, yet all too 
quickly, the truth was rising up and taking shape before 
her, materialising in the knowledge, the certain, accurate 
knowledge, that this man standing at her side, telling 
her the tragedy of his married life, this man so inex¬ 
pressibly dear, for whose love she had so piteously hun¬ 
gered, this same man, hers materially, was spiritually as 
far removed from her as heaven is separate from hell. 

“He has a wife!” 

The words shouted at her, she could hear nothing else, 
give attention to nothing else. “He has a wife, and 
divorce is not allowed a Catholic. You must root up any 
thought of love and cast it out. You must break those 
strong tentacles winding round your heart, even though 
that heart is dismembered in the struggle. And your 
whole world must return to chaos if his be the force that 
binds the whole together. For he has a wife. There is 
no divorce to a Catholic. He has a wife.” 

So spake the voice of conscience. But, even as she 
listened, Margaret wondered what manner of woman 
this wife might be. 

“You turn away with loathing,” Desmond groaned. 
“What else should you do? You who’ve led so sheltered, 
almost cloistered, a life? Tve always held you half a 
saint.” 

“If I were that I could bear to hear, and I should 
understand—the saints are very pitiful—they have learnt 
so much. But, as it is, I’m horrified. Yes, Desmond, 
quite conventionally horrified. Fd almost sooner have 
never known.” And then her pride and injured love rose 
up in anger. “Why did you speak of love at all, with this 
between us?” 


WHIRLWIND 


365 


Yes, Margaret was angry—the gentle, reticent woman 
—that her womanhood should be so outraged; and she, 
cheated of the heaven that was hers so short a while ago. 
When Desmond had said, “I love you, oh, so dearly,” she 
had taken the words as the messages of angels; now they 
echoed in her heart as the mockeries of devils. She had 
been led to love where loving was sin. Surely she had 
been trapped, and she had let this man see what now she 
strove to hide from her own soul; and from her God 
Himself, if that were possible. 

Yet, in her heart she knew that, bitter as the after- 
math might be, the fruit of this tree of knowledge was 
sweet as honey in the mouth. Yes, it was very sweet to 
know that Desmond loved her. “Oh, so dearly, you can 
never know!” Yet the voice within never ceased but bade 
her continually remember, “You must never think of 
love, only of friendship, a cool, calm, stagnant friend¬ 
ship. If any stronger feelings come then you must 
put him right out of your life. It must be as though you 
two had never met.” 

But, Holy Mary! Where was the power that could 
conquer love? What might could take her thoughts and 
train them other than to the way they knew? The fig 
grown on the southern wall gives fruit abundantly. Must 
it then be hacked away and trodden under foot ? 

“I wanted you to go,” Desmond went on. “I asked 
you to, I think. I was not master of myself and feared 
what I might say. Do you imagine I’ve forgotten how 
you think of divorce? Only last night Katie spoke of 
Mrs. Longridge, and I took up the cudgels—purposely, 
I admit—to hear what you would say. You said, Tn our 
Church there is no such thing as divorce/ Oh! but I 
love you—love you—love you! And you love me, too. 


366 


WHIRLWIND 


You cannot, if you are honest, deny it. You love me, 
and, my God, Margaret, I just worship you.” 

Desmond had caught her hands in his, and now he 
raised them, almost in reverence, to kiss, and sank before 
her like a penitent praying to some saint, sweet and in¬ 
accessible, “If I have sinned, forgive me!” 

And she had no force left within her, not one little 
bit of strength, not one little pitiful atom of power with 
which to fight her battle. Nothing was left to her but 
the sense of a great, great love, and the terrible knowledge 
that such love was sin. Even prayer had left her. She 
could neither think nor pray. She only knew the creed 
her Church had taught, could only feel the power of gen¬ 
erations of that faith within her. At that moment Mar¬ 
garet knew nothing, heard nothing but the cry of her 
heart and the voice of her religion; nor could she feel 
anything but the doctrine her Church had bound about 
her, and love that was a sin. 

Oh! how sweet it was, this mild, forbidden thing that 
crept beseeching to her feet! How wonderful the words 
it spoke, and the gentle touching of its hand. So beauti¬ 
ful a thing! So soft to stroke, so terrible to strike. How 
dearly could she hug it to her heart were not her hands 
so closely bound, and how her feet would run in welcome 
to that darling guest were they not so inexorably tied. 

And Desmond knelt and supplicated for just one sign 
of love. It was very pitiful, and Margaret felt him 
stronger in his weakness than had he used a multitude of 
words. 

And still he held her hands, his head bowed low upon 
them. He seemed to find some rest, some consolation 
thus; it even seemed that something of his desire went 
out from him and that way entered Margaret. 


WHIRLWIND 


367 


“Surely/’ she thought, “the bitterness of love is not 
in going unrequited but in sacrifice.” And as the 
thought so came, and as she looked upon that well-loved 
head bent low in humbleness, slowly she stooped to where 
her lover knelt. 

“Surely one kiss is not a sin—and he may never know.” 
She would but pass her lips across his hair, so they might 
have some one personal thing between them! 

And then she remembered that, as her hands and feet 
were bound, even so her lips were sealed. She might not 
kiss the little thing that craved for love, and hung about 
her knee, nor might she touch the lover whom she might 
not love. 

And as she remembered she drew back. Drew her¬ 
self up and took away her hands, while all the sacrifice of 
the Madonna rushed into her heart, and all her faith, her 
love for Mother Church and that Mother’s teaching 
shone in her up-turned eyes. 

“That, too, is sin,” she heard some voice exhorting her. 
“He is not, cannot ever be for you. Someone you do 
not know is placed between you, and all the doctrine of 
the Church—that Church you reverence as you adore— 
stands by that other woman's side." 

Strange mockery! Strange irony! But it was the law 
she knew—the only code she understood. 

And you, too, Reader, you too understand if so be 
you belong to Margaret’s Church. And if not—if, 
either happily or unhappily (I make no decree) this doc¬ 
trine is one beyond your comprehension, then I claim 
from you only the acknowledgment that such a law exists, 
and many millions, all the world over, believe in it. Many 
millions live up to it, people infinitely better than you or I, 
more charitable, more helpful, who are indeed lights 


368 


WHIRLWIND 


shining in darkness. There is no need to ask the pity, or 
seek the sympathy of such as these. They know; they 
understand. But you others, I do beseech, if you are 
incapable of comprehending, at least admit the fact, 
and give your sympathy to the victim of that fact. 

“Desmond! Your wife! You are bound to her!” 

“Is that what your religion teaches? Do you mean to 
send me away because of your old traditions, old be¬ 
liefs, and doctrines?” 

Desmond spoke sternly, almost rudely, and Margaret 
wondered if he, too, was going to turn against her. She 
needed no words of his, no persuasion to make her love 
him more. 

And now she knew that only one thing was left. She 
had to go and never meet him again until she could 
truly say she felt no love but only friendship, and that 
time she knew would never come. This colossal fact 
overshadowed everything. It stood like some gigantic, 
volcanic rock, poised and ready to fall and to destroy 
them both in a slow and horrible death. 

“I don’t think you realise all your story means to me. 
It’s against all I’ve been taught, or believed in, all my 
life.” 

“Am I to be tied to a woman who left me, not only for 
one man but many ? Am I to suffer all my days for the 
folly of the boy I was? I refuse to suffer for a folly that 
was not a sin but a mistake. Am I never to see spring and 
summer again, but only winter for the rest of my life?” 

For one moment he almost carried her with him. For 
just one moment Margaret faltered, but for one moment 
only. And then her love for that ancient Church, that 
creed so inflexible and so in-bred in her, the doctrine of 
sacrifice on which that creed is built, focussed all their 


WHIRLWIND 


369 

united and immeasurable force upon her, and strong in 
all the teachings of the years, she answered him. 

My heart is not mine to give, but God’s to take. If 
we are one at heart, then I must tear mine out, though 
both break in the parting.” 

Well she knew the truth of what she said. Though 
her love died, even that poor gift she must render back 
to God, as Jacob rendered back his only son. 

“Did happiness ever stay with those who grasped un¬ 
lawfully? Suppose I married you? Why, Desmond, I’d 
disappoint you in every way.” 

“Margaret, that’s absurd.” 

“We might have one happy year together, but, after 
that, I should feel that in the eye of God I was your 
Mistress, not your Wife.” 

“What are you saying? Such talk is a hundred years 
out of date.” 

“And those very words of yours, Desmond, show the 
gulf between us. To you a hundred years out of date— 
to me, vital and undying.” 

And Desmond knew that so indeed it was to her. 
Even one who was but Catholic in name would look on 
her marriage with him as adulterous. Though no blame 
attached to him, though he had only freed himself from 
a woman whose life was no better than that of a woman 
of the streets, he would still be that woman’s husband, 
and Margaret, if she married him, would be denied the 
rites of her Church, be ostracised by her fellow Catholics. 

“You make your God a horrible tyrant,” he cried, in 
his bitterness. “Is there no mercy in His law, no sym¬ 
pathy for His own creation?” 

“I believe there is infinite mercy in His law,” she 
answered. “But we must live according to His law.” 


370 


WHIRLWIND 


So those who believe as Margaret believed (and again 
I pray you to remember there are many millions hold that 
faith), God is a kindly Father, but an austere Head of 
His House; One of infinite mercy, yet capable of severe 
condemnation. To others God is Spirit, the still small 
voice that guides from out the wilderness to the oasis, the 
light that lightens the darkness, “Whose yoke is easy and 
Whose burden is light,” and in Whose dictionary the 
word “condemn” is not. 

“You mean to go, to keep us apart?” he said. “Don’t 
you think that’s rather hard, and, forgive me, but isn’t 
it quite other to the teachings of Christ?” 

“You must try to see with my eyes, to understand with 
my heart.” 

“I can’t believe such things! I love you! You can¬ 
not send me from you. Can you find it in you to deny you 
love me?” 

“I don’t think you should ask me that.” 

“I have every right to ask it. You are my God-given 
woman; I am your God-given man; and I’ll never let 
you go. As I hold you now, I will keep you always.” 

And then he took her in his arms, roughly, almost 
brutally. For that moment he was not accountable. The 
stupidity, the uselessness of such a dogma (for so it 
seemed to him), the wickedness of it and the wanton de¬ 
struction that would decimate their love enraged and 
blinded him. Anything so mediaeval was surely impos¬ 
sible in the twentieth century. Yet he knew he had al¬ 
ways feared it. 

If only this iron theory were something tangible he 
might get hold of and throttle, get his fingers round and 
choke, how easy it would be! But this, this thing of 
words, beat him. Margaret was as one groping blindly 


WHIRLWIND 


37i 


for her path, the voice of reason sounding afar, coming 
she knew not whence. 

And Margaret lay quite passive, without movement or 
effort to release herself. How could she in that grip of 
steel? And all the woman in her yielded; all the soft 
delicious woman gave herself up to mere sensuous delight, 
and she was all her lover’s, his to kiss, to fondle, to hold. 
If only she might die thus, suddenly, painlessly, how 
beautiful would such an ending be! 

But she had many days to live, many years to drag to 
their conclusions as best she might, and with all she had 
most hoped for—all she had so loved—not only an im¬ 
possibility, but something she might not even think. No 
wonder that she only longed that this could be the end! 
To die without a struggle, without a parting worse than 
death. 

But behind her stood a greater force than Desmond or 
any lover knew, a power that boasted centuries of might; 
nor was it merely in her blood but rather in her very life. 
And the power of that invincibility lay hold upon her. 
A touch on the shoulder, a whisper in her ear, and Mar¬ 
garet became again, perhaps unwilling, mistress of her¬ 
self but willing slave to her belief. 

“Let me go, Desmond.” 

“Never!” 

“Let me go, please.” 

“You do not wish me to let you go.” 

“Yes, I do. You are only holding my body, nothing 
more.” 

“That’s not true. Why do you say such a wicked 
thing?” 

“Nothing in the world will make me marry you.” 

She stood free again. She had spoken so quietly, so 


372 


WHIRLWIND 


irrevocably, that Desmond had been deceived—as she 
had meant he should be. 

“Nothing in the world/* she repeated, very bravely, 
and looking straight into his eyes. 

“While my wife lives! So I’m to be bound to that 
woman who might have sunk to the level of the streets 
had not luck been with her.” 

“Her way of life is no excuse for you or me. You’ve 
been honest with me. I’ll be honest, too. I do love you 
and I’m too proud of my love to deny it. But—but-” 

She could not quite control her voice and she felt weak 
and feeble. But surely hers was no contemptible figure 
that stood bravely weaving an heroic little smile, valiantly 
fighting against itself for what it held to be eternal 
truth. 

“And I am only to have the knowledge of your love?” 

“Don’t ask for more just now. Remember that, how¬ 
ever sweet the knowledge you have given me, you are 
uprooting a doctrine, a faith in my heart that has grown 
with my growth, become part of my very soul. You must 
have patience with me, dear.” 

And the man saw that, though he might take her again 
to his arms and though his strength could conquer hers, 
she would yet be invincible. Very brave, very pathetic, 
she stood with the dignity that comes to all who fulfil 
their ideals. 

Indeed, between them was a great gulf fixed that 
neither of the two might cross. 

And the simplicity, the sincerity of what she said went 
straight to Desmond’s heart. No protestation, no appeal, 
no declaration of faith could have so deeply moved him 
as those few simple words. 

She stood before him a beautiful image of sacrifice, de- 



WHIRLWIND 


373 


termined to follow the still small voice that whispered 
courage and comfort to her heart. 

And Desmond would not have it otherwise, not now 
when his youthful flicker of passion had died, and the 
ardour of the young man he no longer was had yielded to 
the man of middle years, whose heart might still be 
young, but whose judgment had matured. 

“This is the Margaret I have always loved. It would 
be another Margaret, a woman I did not know, who 
would give herself against her sense of right. I would 
not have her other than she is, Sweet Saint Margaret.” 

And how indeed can the work of generations, or the in¬ 
calculable weight of great authority, fall to a moment’s 
passion ? 

But it was a knell to both of them, a cry in the night 
crossing desolate seas. Good-bye to love, to hope, to all 
that might have been. And so they stood in silence, 
fearing to look on one another, fearing to take each 
other’s hands, fearing above all how much that word 
“Good-bye” might mean. So neither spoke nor moved, 
but stood there mute and looking helplessly upon the 
ground. Only the music from the house went on and 
sounded a litany of farewells, as little choir boys chanting 
“Hear us, good Lord.” 

At length Margaret held out her hand. 

“Good-bye,” she whispered. 

“Good-bye, Saint Margaret, good-bye.” 

For a moment their hands touched, clasped together. 
A little pause. A little silence. And yet no look from eye 
to eye. A little silence. A little pause. A little stifled 
sob in either heart; then quickly, surely, without another 
word or sign, Margaret passed out into the darkness 
underneath the trees. 


374 


WHIRLWIND 


And still the music sang its litany of shattered hopes 
and dreams melted into thin air. It sang of love, with 
broken wings, dying, like a wounded bird fluttering in 
dead leaves. And still he stood, immovably fixed, gazing 
into the darkness underneath the trees where Margaret 
had passed. 


XXXII 


When at last the music ceased Fell came out into the 
garden, preceding the others by some three seconds. 

“Star-gazing?” he laughed. 

“If you like,” Desmond replied, pulling himself to¬ 
gether. “By the way, can you put me up for to-night?” 
he added, and then, as the rest of the party joined them: 
“Please say nothing to Mrs. Forsyth.” 

That lady came out of the house at once, followed by- 
Ralph and Aylmer carrying a tray of drinks. 

“I’m speeding the parting guest,” she said. “Mr. 
Dalison says they must go.” 

“Alas, and alas, dear Mrs. Forsyth, I’m afraid it is so,” 
said Ralph. “Katie has gone already. Where is Mar¬ 
garet, Desmond?” 

“Margaret has gone too. She had a headache, and 
asked me to make her excuses,” answered Desmond, and 
then to Jessica : “She didn’t want to disturb your music.” 

“That was very sweet of her,” she replied, not be¬ 
lieving a word she was told. “I’m so sorry.” 

And then the Squire, on shaking hands with this won¬ 
derful woman, felt as though he were being graciously 
dismissed by some very royal lady. “A brilliant woman, 
an ornament to any Society,” and never dreamed what 
sort of Society she usually ornamented. And, indeed, she 
felt very royal, very triumphant. She had enjoyed it all 
enormously; even the unusual experience of mixing with 


375 


376 


WHIRLWIND 


folk like the Dalisons, as one equally well placed with 
themselves, had not been without its agreeable sensation. 

And now it was all over; but the Squire and his sister 
would always talk to the end of their days about “that 
delightful Mrs. Forsyth, who played the violin so beauti¬ 
fully.” 

True, she had still to persuade Aylmer, but she antici¬ 
pated no difficulty there, and very little with Desmond 
either. Perhaps she was a little too flushed with success, 
a little too confident of her powers; but think how ex¬ 
tremely lucky she had always been, and how brilliantly 
she had carried off the evening. 

Therefore, she smiled very sweetly upon the Squire 
as upon a very pleasant gentleman she liked but whom she 
would never see again, and never miss either. And 
once more she said something pleasant regarding her 
pleasure in meeting him, and sent a polite message to 
Margaret, and then sat her down at peace with all men 
and wondered why Fell yet lingered around. And the 
Squire started for home and took Desmond with him. 
He had to unburden himself to somebody, and Desmond 
lay conveniently handy. 

But it was some time ere Fell realised he was in the 
way! And when he did he tried to arrange some future 
meeting. 

“May I call on you in town?” he asked, on bidding his 
hostess good-night, “or perhaps we shall run across each 
other in Italy. I thought of going there next holi¬ 
day-” 

And then it flashed across her mind what it was that 
ailed this poor, simple fellow. Well did she recognise 
the symptoms. Who, indeed, was a better judge? But 
that evening she had been too occupied to notice the 



WHIRLWIND 


377 


flags of distress our poor doctor had spread upon the 
winds. 

So the sight of them now came with surprise and, it 
is a delight to add, some regret. She hoped things were 
not so bad as her experience told her they probably were. 

“In that case,” she answered, “let us say ‘a rivederci/ ” 
and gave him her kindest smile into the bargain. It was 
done with the best motive, but it sent him home full of 
foolish dreams. But had she snubbed him he would 
have been equally unhappy. In sooth, the path of lovely 
woman is beset with snares. 

“Most pleasant man,” said Jessica, as she watched the 
doctor's retreating figure. “But what a leech for sticking." 

“You shouldn’t be so fascinating," said Aylmer, look¬ 
ing at her with a good deal of content and pride. 

“Silly boy! But it is rather a charming frock," she 
added, looking down upon it with a pleasure that was 
naive and childlike. 

“Who on earth looks at that?" 

“All the women! And the men recognise it by in¬ 
stinct." 

“You worldly minded old thing!" 

And then the two had a good laugh. The unique 
sympathy that bound them had brought about a curious 
relationship. Aylmer regarded his mother almost as an 
elder sister. She had so shared in all his boyish sports 
and pleasures, he had never thought of her merely as a 
parent but as the comrade she had determined from the 
first to prove. 

Those who knew her well and appreciated her (alas! 
they were very few), saw something very pitiful in her 
devotion. They realised it was impossible the boy should 
go through life in ignorance. 


WHIRLWIND 


378 

But Jessica rejoiced that all was well; and I am quite 
sure she was exceedingly grateful, and thanked her God 
(whoever he might be) very heartily indeed that so much 
happiness was vouchsafed her. 

It seemed to both that neither had changed in the two 
years since they had met. They picked up the old broken 
intimacy exactly where they had dropped it. 

Jessica, alone with her boy, felt how one they were, 
how he was still her child, and how easy it should be to 
arrange matters as she thought fit. 

But in spite of all his comradeship, all his sympathy, 
she found it hard to begin. Perhaps this very cama¬ 
raderie made it less easy for the mother to dictate to the 
son. 

And just as she was hesitating, and feeling for the 
right word, it suddenly dawned upon her that this boy 
was somehow different to the boy she had expected to 
find. She had last seen a youth, now she met a young 
man. She had looked to find in the cottage a rather un¬ 
conventional establishment. It would not have surprised 
her had there been an insufficiency of knives and forks, 
and a lack of many things that most housekeepers would 
consider essential. How very different had the reality 
proved. There was almost a superfluity of comfort. Per¬ 
haps she rather wished it had been otherwise and that her 
son had had to ask her advice and her excuses. Then she 
would not have felt he was so grown up. 

“Your friends are charming,” she began at last, “and 
your wigwam delightful. Pd no idea you lived in such 
splendour. How have you managed it?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. It just came. But what luck you 
turned up to-day. Only, why didn’t you say you were 
coming?” j 


WHIRLWIND 


379 


“Made up my mind in a hurry. I usually do, you 
know. Perhaps Pd a longing to see my boy again. You’re 
quite well and happy?” 

“Top-hole, thanks. Couldn’t be better.” 

He certainly looked healthy enough, his mother 
thought, as she looked to where he had squatted on the 
ground at her feet. And such a frank, wholesome face it 
was that it did her good to look at it. “He’ll be kind to 
women,” she said to herself. She was used to judging 
men quickly and accurately. 

“How’s everybody at home? How’s Pepino?” 

“Pepino’s very well, and sent ‘Saluti’ and wants to 
know when the Signore is coming back and going to 
boat and bathe again.” 

“Oh, before long, I hope. But you—you’re not really 
running away to-morrow, are you?” 

“H’m!” 

“What, come all this way for only one night?” 

“To be quite truthful, I’ve only come from Paris. 
Hats and frocks and fal-lals generally.” 

“Extravagant woman!” 

“One must have one’s chiffons, darling. It was there 
your last letter reached me,” she added more seriously, 
and at last, coming to the crux of the matter. 

“My last? That must have been the one telling you I 
wanted to keep my appointment?” 

“But, my dear, how could you take it at all? I’d so 
often told you to see as little of him as possible, and yet 
you accepted this offer, and when I wrote begging you to 
give up you seemed to laugh at me. I can’t understand 
it. How could you, dearest?” 

“But you never gave any reason for your dislike, 
Mater.” 


380 


WHIRLWIND 


Now this was a very simple remark, but it came with 
something of a shock. It was the first time her authority 
had been disputed, the first time her wisdom had been 
questioned, and she fancied, rightly or wrongly, that she 
saw him smile, a little humorous smile, as though what 
she said was rather trivial. 

“Wasn’t my wish enough?” asked Jessica gently. 

And now there could be no doubt that Aylmer was 
smiling. Not unkindly, oh no! but just a little indul¬ 
gently. It suggested that this might be someone very 
dear and precious but just a trifle out of touch with 
life. 

He answered her, taking the white delicate hand she 
had laid on his shoulder in his own strong hand. 

“Dearest, you must remember I’m old enough now to 
make my own friends. I’m a man, not a small boy, to 
be dictated to.” 

Aylmer spoke very respectfully. Yet Jessica felt in¬ 
censed. Yet it was not Aylmer’s answer that jarred. It 
was an almost inaudible little voice in her heart that 
whispered to her of the passing of her motherhood. 

“Yes, that is true,” she answered. “I’d forgotten you 
were twenty-three.” 

“No wonder! I wasn’t with you, and you’d only the 
glass to remind you.” 

But Jessica didn’t join in his laugh this time. She was 
trying to adjust her ideas to the new Aylmer, whose 
acquaintance she was making for the first time. It was a 
very charming Aylmer, but she would have liked he had 
remained a boy a little longer. And perhaps for the first 
time she wondered whether she might not have come too 
late. 

But she was always a good fighter, and dismissed the 


WHIRLWIND 381 

thought at once; but all the same, her reply betrayed her 
fear. 

“Who’s taught you to make pretty speeches, Aylmer?” 

“Heaps of people! Couldn’t possibly remember half. 
But seriously, you’ve never given me any reason why I 
should break with Antrobus. Surely I can pick and 
choose my friends for myself?” 

Jessica leaned back in her chair and smiled a little, for 
she noticed in this grown up son of hers a little boyish 
hurt, and she rather liked it. It made him hers again, for 
it took five years off his age at least, and made him very 
young. And yet she knew he was no longer the Aylmer 
she had known, and was altogether very different to the 
boy she had expected to meet. And as she looked she 
sighed a little and her answer, when it came, was no reply 
to his question. 

“How far you’ve travelled since I saw you last,” she 
said. 

And then Aylmer rose to his feet and stood before her, 
rejoicing in his manhood. 

“Well, I’m getting on. I’m finding my feet. It’s 
glorious to know one’s firmly planted on the first rung of 
the ladder, and it only depends on one’s own pluck to 
reach the top. And I shall. It’s only a question of 
patience and time.” 

Even in the uncertain light she could see how his face 
was flushed with enthusiasm and his eyes bright with ex¬ 
citement. The boy’s ardour attracted her, his certainty 
in his own destiny arrested her, and in sheer astonish¬ 
ment at what she found she cried before she knew: 

“Heavens, Aylmer! How you have developed!” 

Now nothing she could have said could better have 
pleased him. He knew his mother had regarded him as 


382 


WHIRLWIND 


an immature youth and he was delighted to find her 
growing undeceived. 

“I’m glad you said that; I did hope you’d think so. 
You can’t think how much I want to be a credit to you. 
Also, I may as well confess it,” he added with a laugh, 
“I’m most frightfully ambitious for myself.” 

But, even as she caught something of his enthusiasm, 
and though she loved the ardour of his voice, and smiled 
at the flushed eager face, Jessica felt each word as a sur¬ 
geon’s knife cutting the heart out of her body. 

a What fools we mothers are,” she said at length. 
“What hopeless idiots. Our boys go away for a year or 
two and we expect to find them what they were. It’s 
the difference in the generations, the younger is ever eager 
to press forward while the elder dreads to go on. I 
couldn’t have believed,” she added, staring up at her 
son, “you’d change in so short a time.” 

“Hope you don’t object,” the boy laughed back. 

Jessica hardly knew, but she accepted the situation, 
knowing it was inevitable. She had made a silly mistake, 
one common to all mothers, that must be her excuse. She 
rose and put her hands on the lad’s shoulders. She would 
have liked to give him a good hug but felt it might be 
resented by this stalwart young man. 

“No, she didn’t object; she’d been silly to forget what 
a difference two years made at his age. He was no longer 
a boy, much less a child!” And she faltered a little say¬ 
ing this, knowing that with the words she yielded up all 
the sweet privileges of her motherhood. 

They had been hers so long, and very dear to her, but 
she had made the most of them. And now, well, she 
would make the most of this splendid son. After all, it 
sounded better than her “boy.” Though boy he must 


WHIRLWIND 383 

ever remain in her heart; but this knowledge she kept to 
herself. 

So she continued speaking very gently, and with a 
little pretty touch of apology, and as little like a parent as 
she could help. But she was not quite successful. It is 
always thus. However old the child may grow, however 
emancipated it may become, there ever remains the old 
discipline—sleeping I grant you but there all the same— 
the old authority over the child born in the mother at her 
child’s birth. 

“Listen to me,” said Jessica, “you very grown up 
young person. Twenty-three is not so very old, and, as 
I’m your mother, I must be older still, shall we say, at the 
very least, twenty-four? and wise accordingly. My dear, 
dearest of boys, you have always believed and trusted 
me?” 

If it was easy for her to prove fascinating to total 
strangers, how much easier was it for her to be irresist¬ 
ible to one she loved sincerely? For the poor soul was all 
compact of mother love. It showed in every look, every 
word; Aylmer knew it even in the touch of her hands. 

“Why, of course I have always believed it,” and he 
took her tenderly in his arms. 

“Then you must do so now.” 

“About Antrobus—why?” 

“Dearest, I never told you much about your father, 
but you know he was an unusually brilliant man, good 
looking, fascinating to meet—no one-” 

But she could get no further. It was all so much harder 
than she had expected. She had not thought to lie to her 
son. She hated doing it. She 'had lied long ago, when 
he was a child. But that was different, one did not al¬ 
ways tell the truth to a child. But to lie to this youngster 



WHIRLWIND 


384 

who radiated honesty, hurt. Pressed as she was, and 
driven into a corner, she couldn’t say the words. They 
choked her, and, with a little sob her head fell on the 
boy’s neck. 

Aylmer tried his best to soothe the grief he did not 
understand. He could not know she was moved because 
of her need to lie, and not at the recollection of a bad 
husband. 

“I know, I know. Don’t rake it all up again.’' 

“Aylmer, I am your mother, always remember that, 
and trust me, believe me, whatever happens. Remember, 
through everything you’ve been my first thought; the 
only living thing I have to love. Whatever’s been, what¬ 
ever I’ve done, I’ve clung to you, lived in you. Oh, 
Aylmer.” 

God knows what she had intended saying when she 
began, or what fears or premonitions haunted her, but 
surely she had not meant this half-hysterical, pitiful out¬ 
burst, which amounted pretty nearly to a plea for mercy 
where, as yet, there was no need. Perhaps this new 
strength in Aylmer unhinged her, or maybe the know¬ 
ledge that her empire had melted away, nay, even the 
soothing words he tried to calm her with, all may have 
contributed to bring those tears into her voice. For a 
moment she lay passive in his arms, trying to realise that 
her boy saw now with the eyes of a man and not the sweet 
adoring eyes of childhood. 

“Dearest, what’s the matter?” whispered Aylmer. 
“You know I can never forget you, and all you’ve been 
and done. Why talk of my father now?” 

“I must, because if I lost you I should lose everything. 
And that’s what I’m dreading—yes, I see it beginning. 
Already your love is mixed with a little patronage. You 


WHIRLWIND 


385 


treat my advice lightly. It’s this—this Antrobus—com¬ 
ing between us. He—he—Oh, Aylmer, he’s so terribly 
like your father.” 

u But my dear,” the boy answered bewildered, “Antro¬ 
bus has always stood for everything that’s splendid. It’s 
impossible.” 

And again the mother felt her words were being 
weighed, and her fears dismissed. 

“Why impossible?” she asked, almost sharply. 

“Well—think—what can you possibly know against 
him?” 

“I met a woman once she told me her story.” 

“It’s incredible!” 

“It’s true. And he knows that I know. That’s why 
he’s been so absent-minded all the evening.” 

“There’s never been a word, not even a whisper, 
against him.” 

And then, in a flash, he saw wherein lay his mistake, 
and he laughed at his own stupid forgetfulness. Some 
woman had met his mother, and of course had been be¬ 
lieved. And he felt all the tenderness of great wisdom to 
stumbling ignorance. 

“You dear simple credulous soul,” he cried, taking her 
into his arms again. “Why such a woman would get 
round you at once, of course, you’d believe any pitiful 
tale.” 

But when she found herself being taken into his arms 
and being downright petted, then Jessica could almost 
have screamed. She loathed the sense of protection she 
received and through all the caressing words ran that 
tone of patronage that chafed her so. 

“You believe, you trust, this man before me, your 
mother ?” 


3 86 


WHIRLWIND 




“Where’s your proof? Besides, I couldn’t believe it. 
He’s too splendid. Only in my last letter I told you he 

was more like a father than-” 

“Aylmer, what are you saying?” she cried out almost 
in pain. “Oh, it’s just what I dreaded, this ascendancy 
he’s won. Why must you believe him before me? It’s 
monstrous, unlike you! And, you see if he doesn t try to 
put himself right with you, very likely this evening. Oh, 
my dear,” she went on, all tenderness once more for this 
stubborn youth, every atom of her resentment gone, “you 
are so confident, so wise in your twenty-three years. Yet 
after all, you know, you are only a child to me.” 

If anything could have made amends for what was very 
like anger in the beginning of her speech, the gentleness 
at the end would have atoned. The poor soul was a crea¬ 
ture much at the mercy of her moods, and Aylmer’s ob¬ 
stinacy (that was what she would have called it had she 
stopped to think) had jangled her nerves. 

Had she taken so much care, spent so much thought in 
the past, to have all that work undone in a few short 
months? And, irony of ironies, had Desmond’s been 
the hand to pull her work to pieces ? Yet gently, tactfully, 
as she thought to have spoken in the end; it was not a 
wise finish. She felt so much the mother, so very much 
the elder in the knowledge of her wide and varied experi¬ 
ences that she could not help but smile at the second-hand 
wisdom of Aylmer’s three and twenty years. 

And Aylmer rather resented the implied slight and was 
a little hurt that his mother refused to take him seriously. 

“I owe Sir Desmond everything,” he said. “What do 
you want me to do?” 

“Give up your post. Go back with me to Italy.” Ayl¬ 
mer stared. 


WHIRLWIND 


387 


“Oh, but I couldn’t.” 

Never in her life had Jessica seen anyone show such 
utter amazement, or heard sentence passed with such 
finality. Yet she persevered. She had not got so far to 
be beaten in the end. 

“Aylmer! Not to please me?” 

“But it means giving up my career, friends, every¬ 
thing.” 

“Does this post of yours seem so wonderful?” 

“Why, of course! It’s extraordinary luck for a man 
of my age.” 

“I never thought for one moment that you’d refuse 
me. I thought you’d be delighted.” 

“Do you ask because of Antrobus? Really, mater, it’s 
absurd. Even if your story were true how could it touch 
me?” 

How, indeed? It was not as though Aylmer were a 
young girl who had stumbled on an undesirable chap¬ 
eron. Jessica knew she had no answer. Yet she simply 
dared not go away and leave Aylmer and Desmond to¬ 
gether in daily, almost hourly commune. And bitterly 
did the unhappy woman regret she had ever let the boy 
go. But how could one foresee events ? 

“I want you out of England, out of this man’s way. 

I can’t bear to think of you constantly thrown together. 
Aylmer,” she pleaded, “I never thought I should have 
to speak twice. I thought you and I were one, that I’d 
only have to ask. I thought you’d love it.” 

Aylmer did not want to hurt his mother and he began 
to see now how much it all meant to her. He could not 
quite understand why she was so implacable against 
Antrobus. It didn’t seem to him quite fair. But good 
women were like that, he knew. It was something that 


388 


WHIRLWIND 


had to be accepted. But he couldn’t think of leaving 
England. That was beyond his power to do now, even if 
he had wished it, and he didn’t. Landolfo looked no less 
beautiful, Pepino no less the good fellow to boat and 
swim with, but he saw it all with different eyes. Italy 
was the sort of heavenly place to go and die in, or, better 
still, pass your honeymoon in. 

“I’ve got my work,” he said quietly, “my career now, 
and that’s here, in England.” 

“I have found you another, more brilliant, perhaps.” 

But Aylmer didn’t even care to hear what it might be. 
It was not so much his career after all he was thinking 
about, but a certain girl not fifty miles away. 

“I can’t give up England.” 

He felt very miserable, poor boy, for he could see his 
mother was suffering. She seemed at a loss what to do or 
say, and yet was so very insistent to gain her point. And 
he felt in his mother a soft subdued sorrow as for some¬ 
thing lost, a tender yearning after that which had been 
but would never come again, and a very pathetic effort 
to forget. 

“Oh, Aylmer! I’d give up all the world for you. 
Can’t you do this for me?” 

Ah! But it is one thing to give up the world when 
you have little further use for it, and quite another when 
you have just realised what a very happy place that 
world can be. 

“I’m awfully sorry-” But, somehow, it wasn’t 

easy to explain about Katie. 

“You’ve debts? Some entanglement?” And Jessica 
smiled indulgently. Debts and entanglements had a way 
of tripping up youth and were the first things that 
occurred to her. 



WHIRLWIND 


389 


But Aylmer only turned away very sorrowfully. 

“No. It’s not that. You make me feel a brute. I’m 
going against all you wish and we’ve not met for so long. 
But, well, I can’t help it.” 

Then Jessica remembered, at last, that little episode a 
short time back in that very place when she had called 
and he had not heard, because he was talking to a young 
girl. Even then, she had wondered for a moment, now 
she was almost certain. 

“Is it?” she asked. “Tell me, my dear, please, please 
tell me. Is it Katie Dalison?” 

He was glad she asked and though he did not answer in 
words, Jessica knew. 

“So that’s it.” 

Someone else had taken her place, someone with greater 
authority, whose call he would answer, nay, whose call 
he was bound to answer before he would even listen to 
her own. She felt suddenly very lonely, very sad, and 
very undecisive. The world seemed to have grown old, 
it looked a tawdry, shabby thing, painted and made up. 
Surely she had no further use for it? It was time for 
her to give up the masquerade. 

“You make me feel a howling cad,” the boy said, in a 
low miserable voice. “We’ve not met for ages and I 
seem to be going against everything you want me to do. 
It’s rotten bad luck.” 

Yes, rotten bad luck, but he knew he was doing the only 
thing he could do. 

But though Jessica may have felt a little pang at her 
heart (as I believe every mother does on like occasions), 
she could not resist the appeal he made to her. To be in 
love at his age was very right and proper, and his 
mother could already rejoice that his eye had fallen on so 


39 o WHIRLWIND 

charming a girl, and hope that all would go well with 
him. 

Of course she had not known of this when she had 
spoken. It altered everything and Aylmer must not 
think she did not rejoice with him or grudged him his 
happiness. Twenty-three he might be, and in love with 
a girl, and his heart might be full of that love. Still, 
oh still, he would always be her boy. The child must 
ever remain hers. That was something no girl could take 
away. 

“Have you spoken to her?” she asked quietly. “Have 
you said anything to her people?” 

“Yes. To-night. They’re awfully kind.” 

“Only to-night? Then, had I been earlier—Aylmer! 
I’ve lost you, Aylmer!” 

Oh, but she had never meant to say that, it broke from 
her unawares and brought the boy to her side at once. 
Yet now it was said, what use to deny it ? And it was a 
relief to give way a little to her regret. 

“Yes, my day’s done. My sun’s set. Oh, boy! boy! 
If you could only know what you are to me.” 

And let us remember that in Aylmer Jessica had stored 
all her love, all her tenderness, every good quality she 
possessed. And if she felt at that moment what the 
boy stood for in her life, almost as a revelation; and if 
she appears a little selfish in her love, let us rememfber 
also that except for her son there was no living thing she 
had to love, no living thing she had to live for and, 
above all, let us not forget that his had been, not only 
the one honest love she had ever known, but a light that 
had lighted her darkness, and led her safely over many 
troubled waters. 

But for that light, Jessica might have become, like so 


WHIRLWIND 


391 


many of those others, wrecks upon that hard and cruel 
coast. What wonder that she said, “If you could only 
know what you have been to me.” 

He couldn’t understand; but his arms were round her, 
and he told her she was “quite, quite wrong.” But Jessica 
knew men very well by now and though this son of hers 
was something very special, yet still he was a man, and, 
well, she had too much experience not to know. 

But she looked into his eyes and smiled, and her arms 
were about his neck, and in her heart she prayed “Please 
God he never learns the truth.” 

“That is something you never can know and I can 
never explain. No! You will never learn, not even if in 
time you have a boy of your own. And perhaps I don’t 
want you to know. Would it surprise you to hear that 
I am two people, that one side of me craves for music 
and warmth and all that’s bright and beautiful in the 
world, while the other only asks for rest and peace, and 
a little happiness?” 

“You mustn’t think I shan’t love you as much as ever. 
Of course I shall. Perhaps, in some ways, more than 
ever. Only this is a different sort of thing, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, dear, quite different. A greater love. But do 
you think any mother realises that before her time?” 

“Why go to-morrow? Stay here and learn to know 
Katie. I want you to love her, you know.” 

“The doctor said ‘Home sweet home’ had its charms. 
I dare say he was right. What do her people say?” she 
added, after a pause. 

“Well, I think they want to know something about 11s. 
Who are my people, mater?” 

Who indeed? She had expected the question, and had 
her answer ready pat, cut and dried. 


392 


WHIRLWIND 


“We have no relations, we are all alone, we two.” 

“Just we two—sounds a little lonely, eh?” 

But the woman felt that very soon she might be lonelier 
yet. A little sob, a little catch in her throat; and Aylmer 
is all solicitude. 

“What is it, dear?” 

“Nothing. Good-bye, Aylmer.” 

“Good-bye? Good-night, you mean.” 

“Yes, of course, I meant that! Suppose her people, 
by any chance, were to say ‘No.’ What then, Aylmer?” 

“Oh, if they did that—I can’t think,” he said. 

So she bowed to the inevitable and accepted the change 
that must colour all her life. It was very much what she 
herself had spent long hours planning, only it was not to 
have happened quite so soon* and not in this way either. 

And the girl’s people had asked questions. Well, she 
supposed she could satisfy them, or would she have to 
ask Desmond’s help? It was rather complicated, but 
there was always a solution somewhere if one looked 
carefully. 

And then she drew Aylmer on to talk of his future, and 
thus they grew very intimate, for all the old good under¬ 
standing came back to them. 

But when Jessica learnt what an heiress Katie was, 
when she began to realise that her aunt was no less a 
person than the great Duchess of Hampshire while an 
uncle was the famous Cardinal Dalison, and when she 
grasped that all this lovely country, that wonderful old 
Manor that Aylmer had sent her pictures of, I say, 
that when Jessica realised that some day all this would 
be Katie’s, then I think her heart failed her a little. 

It was a goodly inheritance, a great deal for a boy 
like Aylmer to win. It was not too much, of course, 


WHIRLWIND 


393 


only what one might expect for such a paragon, but well, 
there might be considerable difficulties indeed were the 
Dalisons the kind of people she took them for. 

But there was no occasion to say that now. So she 
listened to Aylmer’s recital of Katie’s praises, and even 
began to think that if any girl could be good enough, 
then it was just possible this girl might be the one. 

And so they both forgot that Desmond Antrobus had 
ever been a bone of contention between them. In fact 
they had no idea that such a person existed, much less 
that he was that very instant watching them from the 
darkness. 

And then he made a little noise before coming forward 
so as to attract their attention. 

“Still up, Mrs. Forsyth? If you wish to speak to me 
I am entirely at your service.” 

And Jessica was delighted. “By all means let them 
have their little talk, and she won’t detain Sir Desmond 
long.” 

She has quite made up her mind what attitude to take, 
and thought she knew very well how to close Desmond’s 
mouth, should he be so ill-advised as to insist on blurting 
out the truth. 



XXXIII 


The boy’s enthusiasm had proved so contagious that 
Jessica also had begun building for the future, and had 
very absolutely forgotten Antrobus and all he stood for. 
So his sudden appearance made her, for one moment, 
feel like one who, swimming in a golden sea, suddenly 
strikes a little cold current. 

But Aylmer kissed his mother ; lit a cigar, and went off 
for a stroll. And where should he stroll but up towards 
the little church in the park! From there he could see 
into the Manor gardens. It was not really late, and by 
chance he found Miss Katie walking in them. 

But further I refuse to inquire. Besides it is far more 
important and far more interesting, to watch the pro¬ 
ceedings of the other two. 

Desmond proposed they should go into the house, but 
Jessica preferred to stay outside. The night was darker 
than it had been, for great clouds were coming out of 
the west, marching like an army of giants, well drilled, 
manoeuvring smartly, very mysteriously, shod with silence. 

“Well?” asked Jessica. 

“Dalison has been talking to me about his daughter 
and Aylmer.” 

Shot the first. The low boom of cannon in the distant 
hills, the first cool, well-aimed shot of the battle. 

“You mean she and Aylmer are in love? I’ve heard 

m 


WHIRLWIND 


395 


all about that,” Jessica answered lightly, almost gaily. 
She enjoyed the little triumph at being before Desmond 
with his information. 

Had she paid him the compliment of remembering 
his rigid adherence to wthat he considered right, she 
might have paused a little before becoming somewhat 
unduly elated. But her easy nature never allowed her 
to look ahead, or to worry very much about what other 
people might think either. She had decided in her own 
mind, that if Aylmer was really in love, she herself must 
stand aside. She would always be a little jealous of the 
other woman but she would still be his mother, and 
would always understand him better than his wife, and 
that comforted her. 

“You may have seen that Dalison likes the boy,” 
Desmond continued, talking rapidly, “and, personally, 
has nothing whatever against him. There is, of course, 
the religious question. The Dalisons are Catholics. 
Anyway, I have great influence with the family, and I 
think it would go sufficiently far even in that direction.” 

“You are very kind.” 

And Jessica meant it. Desmond’s good offices were 
what she would most desire; and lo! he proposed them 
without a word from her! 

“Then it’s all settled? The Dalisons approve?” and 
Jessica half turned as though to go. 

“If the girl’s heart is set on the match there would 
be only one vital obstacle. I think you can guess what I 
mean.” 

But Jessica preferred not to guess; she began to per¬ 
ceive that this businesslike method of Desmond’s 
presented something more serious than an expression of 
facts she already more or less knew. 


396 WHIRLWIND 

“I suppose you refer to Aylmer’s comparative lack of 
means ?” 

“Money is quite a secondary consideration. Dalison 
wants to know, and very naturally, something about 
Aylmer’s father-” 

The roar of the battle had grown considerably louder, 
and the enemy had come to closer quarters; there were 
even unmistakable tokens that he threatened to carry her 
first outpost, but she had been prepared for an attack 
in that quarter, and had her defence ready. 

“Has Mr. Dalison asked you—anything?” 

He nodded. 

“And what did you say?” 

“I told him he’d better come to you.” 

“You did? Whatever made you say that?” 

Her poor perverted mind was unable to understand 
such chivalry on an enemy’s part. It was ingrained in 
her nature to strike the best bargain she could. She had 
observed the women who did not look very sharply after 
Number One usually found that no one looked after 
them. It was a hard and repulsive truth but the truth as 
she knew it. 

So she wondered what on earth Desmond could have 
been thinking about to let so fine an opportunity of 
achieving an easy victory slip by. 

“I was unprepared,” Desmond replied, and then he 
added, “perhaps I thought you ought to know first.” 

And then she noticed that Desmond had used the word 
first. 

“Why did you say first?” she asked. 

“I meant before-” 

Surely she must know what he had meant? 

And she did know. Desmond meant to speak out! 



WHIRLWIND 


397 


“You are not going to tell them?” 

He felt a sort of grim humour when he heard Jessica’s 
question. 

“What sort of a man do you take me for?” he replied. 

If she answered truly, she would say “You fool! 
When the easy way is so clear why create needless 
trouble?” And she hastened to explain what she con¬ 
sidered the easy way. 

“But you know nothing! How should you? We 
never met before to-day! / shall say my husband died 
abroad soon after my marriage, and hadn’t a relation in 
the world. It’s so simple.” 

Desmond stood amazed. Would she never under¬ 
stand that he was forced to speak of what he knew? 
But he had forgotten that Jessica was rather good at 
finding ways out of difficulties, and usually they were 
ways of pleasantness. 

“Dalison must be told the truth.” 

“That is the truth.” 

“Your story would not hold water. What about your 
family ? Are you going to pose without relations also ? 
But apart from that he must be told the whole, un¬ 
varnished truth.” 

Jessica found the fight would be a little tougher than 
she had thought. Clearly Desmond was still harping on 
“the right thing to do.” And she felt the contempt of 
the casuist for one who insisted on raking up mud instead 
of patting it down nicely, and .beating it smooth and firm. 

“Can’t you see how far, far better it is to let things 
go on as they are?” she asked. “Think how well it has 
worked up to now.” 

Desmond answered instantly: “I tell you I cannot 
keep silent, Dalison has asked me what I know, and I 



398 


WHIRLWIND 


am in honour bound to tell him. These are friends of 
years. We are constantly with each other, no friendship 
could be closer or truer. Do you imagine I am going to 
turn round upon them and cheat them? How could I 
meet them when I knew in my heart I had deliberately 
deceived them, yes, that’s what it means, deliberately 
deceived them?—and to shield you —had tricked them 
out of knowledge they had every right to know!” 

“Why need they ever learn that?” said Jessica; “the 
facts are only known to you and me. Why fuss and 
worry over something that in all probability will never 
happen?” 

“Whether they found out or not is beside the question,” 
Desmond replied. “Dalison has asked me certain 
questions I am in honour bound to answer. I tell you 
again I have no intention of lying to my best friends in 
order to spare you. Now, do you understand?” 

And Jessica did begin to understand. She saw her 
plans and schemes brushed aside like cobwebs. She saw 
a very determined and masterful Desmond. 

And then she remembered if Dalison refused to con¬ 
sent, Aylmer would ask the reason! What explanation 
would Desmond give ? How bitterly she regretted having 
come to Fordcombe. Her story might have been accepted 
from a distance; and once the marriage had taken place, 
Desmond’s tongue would have been silenced. 

But the dominant thought of all was, “What was 
Desmond going to tell Aylmer?” 

“You’re set on this?” she asked. “You’ll tell them I’m 
—as good as your divorced wife? What are you going 
to tell Aylmer?” 

“I’m going to acknowledge my son-” 

“Desmond!” 



WHIRLWIND 


m 


“Why should I not ? He is my son!” 

“But if you do that—he must know the truth also.” 

“Well, he is twenty-three, he is old enough to hear it.” 

They stood close together and their voices were never 
raised. One questioned, the other replied, and they stood 
so still, so very still, they seemed almost as quiescent as 
the trees about them. Only the great battalions over¬ 
head came up quickly, marching and counter marching, 
silently hiding away the moon, until she held them back: 
to see what was passing down below. 

“Oh no, whatever happens he must never learn that. 
I’ve kept him apart from my life always. He has no 
idea! Not the least suspicion.” 

But Desmond stood before her as unbendable as a 
pillar of steel, and his words stabbed her like an assassin’s 
knife that thrust again and again into a body already 
half dead. 

“He is my son. He must learn his parentage. You 
have told him many lies on that head. It is time he heard 
the truth.” 

And now Jessica’s nerves began to play her false. 
She began to flounder and the next words stumbled over 
her lips, escaping like prisoners in the dark, as silently 
and stealthily as possible. 

“Desmond,” she whispered. “Listen, just one moment. 
Have you thought of the consequence to him?” 

“The consequence to whom?” 

“To Aylmer! If you do this, you will break his 
heart.” 

It was a good move. He had thought of Dalison, of 
Margaret too, and of himself a little, but he had not 
thought of Aylmer with his mother’s mind. 

“Do you suppose I want to tell him?” he asked. 


400 


WHIRLWIND 


“Then why do it? You’ve heard him talk of me! 
You know how he idolises me! Me!—his mother. Do 
you suppose he’ll be grateful to you? Oh, tell these others 
if you must, but not—my boy.” 

Believe me or not, as you please, but at that moment 
Jessica forgot herself, forgot her adoration, the care 
that for so long had kept a shield between Aylmer and 
the truth. Her craving for his love, and her clinging to 
his respect, all these great Gods of her existence went 
down before the one thought that this torture must not 
be given to her boy. 

And Desmond saw nothing but all the mother in her 
pleading. 

“What you ask is neither fair to him nor to me,” the 
man answered. “How can the facts be kept from him? 
I am in honour bound to tell the Dalisons and Aylmer 
will ask me what I said! You talk about his respect, his 
love for his mother, the idol he has made of her. Idol 
indeed! Is he to continue idolising when all the time it 
is only a horrible sham he worships ?” 

“Sham! Sham! No, it’s far from that. You only 
see one side of me, that of the faithless wife. You forget 
I am also a true and faithful mother! There’s been no 
sham there. Ask him! Ask him!” 

“There’s no need. I know it.” 

“If you tell him, he won’t believe you,” cried Jessica. 

“He must believe with the proofs I have.” 

“What proofs?” 

“Enough for-” 

But Desmond could not go on. The woman had just 
spoken of herself as mother, and indeed he had never 
doubted her there. Her motherhood was a most beauti¬ 
ful reality, an honour to all mothers. And recognising 



WHIRLWIND 


401 


that, how could he torture the already agonised woman 
further ? And she had pleaded so eloquently, so fer¬ 
vently, that had it not been that Margaret sat throned 
in his heart, and every atom of him gave service to his 
Queen, Desmond might have sought some compromise. 

It was Jessica who spoke. 

“You mean enough for—divorce-” she whispered. 

Desmond did not answer her. What was the use? 
She had guessed. 

And now if you have felt sympathy for the mother, I 
cannot but fear you will have little, if any, for the woman. 

Twenty-three years ago and Desmond remembered 
Jessica as always quiet, perhaps a little cold: certainly 
the very last to make a scene. But in the years gone by 
she had passed through all kinds of adventures, and one 
cannot live commonly and remain oneself uncommon. 
So it was quite another Jessica to the one he remembered 
who turned and faced him now. She was no longer a 
broken, pleading mother to excite pity and compunction, 
but a raging, angry, jealous woman, with a voice grown 
almost raucous; and very careless how she spoke. For 
Desmond was her husband, the first man she ever knew, 
and however vile a wife may be, her husband is her 
husband, and in the bottom of her heart she is always 
jealous of him. 

“So that’s it,” she cried. “That’s what it all means! 
All your love of truth, your sense of honour! Now we 
know! Now we understand! Good God! Who are 
you to talk of shams? You care nothing for Aylmer, 
you’d break his heart! Pretending he ought to be told. 
That it’s wrong he should think a sinner a saint. My 
God! And all because you want to have this other 
woman.” 



WHIRLWIND 


402 

Jessica stood trembling with passion. For that instant 
all her refinement fell from her, she became a virago of 
the streets dressed in the clothes of a duchess. He would 
scarcely have known her. 

“Don’t speak of her.” 

“And why not, pray? Aren’t we out to have the truth? 
Very well then, let’s have it all for Christ s sake. 

“Can’t you see it’s out of the question for me to 
divorce you now? You are his mother, I am his father. 
If I divorced you I don’t think I could look my son in 
the face again. To rake up the scandal, and break his 
idol publicly would be dealing a double blow—like hitting 
a man when he’s down. Neither could we be happy, she 
and I, snatching our happiness from our children.” 

“How do you mean?” 

She had calmed down as suddenly as she had flared up. 
It had been a moment of swift, blind fury. A moment 
that showed her boy sacrificed to Desmond’s longing 
for another woman, A moment when she marked her¬ 
self supplanted, defeated by another woman; one her 
inferior in looks and wit, and certainly no younger than 
herself, who conquered through one asset only—and that 
the only thing lacking in her own armoury. And the 
thought lashed her to frenzy. It only lasted an instant, 
but the mischief was done, she could never again raise 
the same compassion in Desmond for herself, as did the 
distracted mother so eloquently pleading for her mother¬ 
hood. 

“If there was a scandal, the facts about us were 
known, discussed, and paragraphed largely in the papers, 
is it likely Dalison would consent? The girl is only 
nineteen and no one’s life ends at that age. There are 
difficulties enough already, but I may smooth them over, 


WHIRLWIND 


403 


on one condition. That is, you go away quietly, right 
away!” 

“You mean out of his life? To never see or hear of 
him, again?” 

“Can’t you do this for Aylmer?” 

But Jessica was thinking what life would mean without 
a sight of her boy, without a word, but with the know¬ 
ledge that he knew her for what she was. 

“To live on, alone, knowing he thinks me infamous?” 

“Say knowing the truth.” 

“Oh, you and your truth!” she cried angrily. “You’d 
sacrifice all the world to Truth. And you wouldn’t even 
tell the truth.” She added sadly and without bitterness, 
“No, my dear Desmond, you wouldn’t. Not one quarter 
of the truth.” 

“You may trust me to do you every justice.” 

Once again Jessica had become the calm, dignified 
woman; despairing maybe, but not yet desperate; and 
this quiet woman, speaking softly and slowly, com¬ 
manded respect, even when confessing her own iniquity. 
Jessica smiled when Desmond promised to do her justice. 

“I’m sure you would intend to be fair, but you couldn’t 
be, nor any man alive I think. Who can tell the truth 
about such as I? I know exactly what you would say. 
You would remember I am his mother, and that I have 
been a goad mother, you would do me every justice in 
that capacity, and I thank you, very heartily thank you. 
But you forget it’s just in that capacity I need no defence. 
He knows all you could say already, and a good deal 
more than you could tell him. And then you would 
say I was your wife, that I had left you for riches and 
comfort, that I had been this man’s mistress one day, 
and that man’s the next.” 


404 


WHIRLWIND 


“You needn’t suppose I should say more than I need,” 
Desmond interrupted. 

“But it would be the truth. That truth you so adore, 
and I don’t quite see how you could avoid it once you 
began. After all, you have ample justification! But it 
wouldn’t he the whole truth. No, not one half, and not, 
oh, not by any means the most important half. That 
you can never tell him because you could never under¬ 
stand. And you never will. Neither could he, and that s 
the bitterest part of all.” 

It was a moment or two before she could steady her 
voice to speak, she felt beaten, and knew she was, yet 
must she try to make things clear. 

“You’d laugh if I told you I never really wanted to go 
wrong, that if I’d seen one ray of sunshine, or glimmer 
of hope, in those old days, it would not have happened. I 
don’t think it would. Then there was the child. I didn’t 
want him. I didn’t want a third in those tiny quarters. 
It wasn’t till afterwards, when that wee mite was put 
into my arms, I knew what he was going to be in my life. 
I tell you I never wanted to go wrong. It came gradually, 
little by little, a suggestion to-day, another to-morrow, 
till I got used to the idea. I wonder how many weeks 
the serpent took tempting Eve?—I’m sure she didn’t 
take the apple the first time, or even the second. 

“You’d never believe that at times I have loathed my¬ 
self and my life. That I have had an utter contempt for 
it all. But that would be the truth. No woman not a 
born fool ever wants to be bad. But one day we meet a 
man whose nature is parallel with ours, then there comes 
a moment of dazed excitement, of wonder, of curiosity. 
Oh, an impossible, primitive, mad moment, when we for¬ 
get all we’ve learnt, forget we are anything but flesh and 


WHIRLWIND 


405 


blood. Animal, if you like, but to us, above all, it’s an 
ignorant moment. Then the man rides away as cool as 
you please, a lord of creation. It’s the woman loses the 
game, and by that time there isn’t another left to play. 
That s what you’d have to tell him if you wanted to tell 
the whole truth.” 

Very reminiscently, as out of her own past, she had 
spoken, hardly above a whisper. Desmond listened, and 
believed. He also pitied the woman so abject in her 
confession. But pity and belief were not all he knew. He 
had memory too, memory for Margaret—for what he 
must in honour do. 

Jessica’s voice trailed away into the silence. She 
thought of many things just then, of what had been and 
of what might have been; and then again of what was 
happening that very moment, why she was there in the 
garden at Fordcombe, and she remembered the terrible 
thing that threatened her. 

She turned to Desmond, not so much pleading, as 
“rubbing in” a great fact, with every quick, emphatic 
word she spoke. 

“I tell you I never wanted to go wrong. Not in my 
heart. But you don’t know how hard it is to get back, or 
how people, circumstances, combine to stop you. You 
don’t know what a poisonous drug excitement is, nor 
how the knowledge of our position—women always real¬ 
ise things too late—drives us to extremes. I can’t help 
my temperament. I’m only what God made!” 

Desmond gave the only answer he could, but as gently 
as he was able. “This is only painful to us both. I can 
only repeat the truth must be told. It can’t be hid just 
because the telling will cut him to the heart.” 

He looked for another appeal, another outburst, or 


406 


WHIRLWIND 


some effort to retrieve her fortune. But Jessica only 
made a little gesture. She acquiesced. She saw the 
uselessness of any further effort. He would do what he 
thought right. She had no power to stay him. Aylmer 
would have done the same in his father’s place. She 
was the sinner, and her portion was with other sinners. 

“I suppose everyone would agree with you, would say 
I deserved my punishment, and that I’d only brought it 
on myself. And perhaps that’s true and right enough, 
from your point of view. But remember! I’m still a 
woman! Still a mother ! And every atom of the mother 
in me cries for him! You shan’t blackguard me to my 
own son!” 

No! She couldn’t endure that. Quietly she had 
spoken. Meekly she had accepted the sentence pro¬ 
nounced, but as she proceeded, as she recalled she was 
indeed woman and mother, an indignation possessed her, 
and it was with superb assurance she turned and told 
this man who tortured her “You shan’t blackguard me 
to my own son.” 

And for a moment this wretched woman, by turns 
pleading eloquently, vehemently, insistently, pathetically, 
to be left the love and respect of her child, moved 
Desmond to profound pity. 

“Jessica! There is no other way. Not one of us can 
help ourselves. It is Fate. The result of past acts. 
Throughout your life you have done whatever amused 
you, without one single thought to the future.” 

“I’ve never dared look into the future. What sort of 
future can there be for such as I ? We live for one thing 
only, men’s smiles. We can never have many women 
friends and those we have we’re jealous of, or they of us, 
and so we live for men. I’ve seen it often—I know it— 


WHIRLWIND 


407 


believe me, the woman growing old, afraid of every new 
day, with nothing of her own, when her only occupation’s 
gone. One day we discover we’re not quite so young. 
We usually find that out suddenly, in a flash. I found it 
out to-night. Aylmer showed me! I’m still good look¬ 
ing, but very soon they’ll begin to say ‘Isn’t she wonder¬ 
ful. How on earth does she do it?’ and then-” 

Jessica ended with an expressive half contemptuous 
shrug of the shoulders that spoke of the nothingness of 
the unwanted woman. 

What indeed have the Jessicas to look forward to but 
the dragging out of an unnecessary life in a world that 
has forgotten them? 

They have no purpose, when their day is done. They 
hang like the dead garlands of last night’s feast, waiting 
to be carted away. Other revellers come, who only know 
the last night’s sport to mock at it, and they cry “what 
are these dead garlands doing here? Let in the sun and 
air, and clear the room for a different dance to-night.” 

“Desmond, I’d looked to be so different. I’d always 
hoped my boy would be mine through life. I’ve lived in 
him! The better part of me is there. Don’t kill that! 
The vilest woman in the world would ibe an angel to her 
son, and I’m not so bad. Don’t take him from me.” 

She made no attempt to touch him. She stood very 
still just where she had always stood. Neither did she 
try to be pathetic. There was no acting whatever in any¬ 
thing she did. She felt too keenly to play a part. She 
remained herself, a woman, sensual, luxury loving, 
swayed by emotions, but as she had said, “not so bad.” 
She had spoken very simply, and in that very simplicity 
proved most touching. 

“Jessica—can’t you see? It’s too late.” 



408 


WHIRLWIND 


If Desmond had spoken less gently, she would have 
had a greater hope. But, the gentleness in him showed 
his inflexibility. And time was passing. At any moment 
Aylmer might return. Why must all her sins come to¬ 
gether crowding for their reward? 

And as she saw the hopelessness of changing Des¬ 
mond’s mind, she felt a numbness creep upon her, and 
yet, a last wild desire to save for herself the little bit of 
happiness that life still held. And so she made one last 
effort, one more frantic appeal not to be cast into utter 
darkness. She hardly knew what she said, or indeed, 
what further plea to make. She spoke indeed at random, 
often quite incoherently, feeling her futility, yet franti¬ 
cally anxious to be reprieved till at the last she broke 
down utterly; passionately weeping, sobbing inarticulate 
prayers. 

“Don’t take him from me! What else have I in the 
world? You have so much, but his love, his respect, oh, 
they mean everything to me—you don’t know. Why, but 
for him I might have sunk to the gutter. My life’s not 
been all one triumph! But always I had him, always I 
had that anchor. And he loved me so as a child. Oh! it 
was so beautiful to know that one thing loved me honestly 
—one thing didn’t know—and—and—and then—Oh, 
Desmond! Desmond! I know I’ve been a bad wife— 
any man’s mistress were he rich enough—but, whatever 
I’ve been, I am his mother. I can’t lose his respect, his 
faith. I love him! So much, I daren’t tell you he was 
born. I thought you’d take him from me! I’ve been the 
best of mothers. I love him! He belongs to me! I’m 
his mother! I love him! He’s mine.” 

Gone the confident, radiant creature. Gone the grace, 
the charm, the alluring personality. Aye, and gone, too. 


WHIRLWIND 


409 


the youth and beauty. It was a white, haggard, broken, 
beaten woman, middle-aged and years older than she of 
an hour ago, who lay sobbing and grovelling at Desmond’s 
feet, expostulating, entreating, endeavouring to move 
him to some show of pity. She used no guile of sex, no 
subtle art, nor did she seek to hide her face, swollen red 
with tears; she used no weapon whatever except—and 
that unconsciously—all the tragedy of a broken heart. 

But Desmond, even while he pitied the mother, was a 
merciless judge of the woman. For, alas! alas! poor 
Jessica, your very justification as mother was your con¬ 
demnation as woman. The contrast was too glaring, too 
insistent to pass unnoticed. Desmond remembered how 
she had cheated him of his rights as parent, and to save 
herself even now had implored his silence with tears and 
supplications. 

And as he remembered he cried, “Is he not my son as 
well as yours? You’ve had your share in him; now it is 
my turn.” 

“Only let me keep his faith—his love.” 

“Think of all my love, my hungry love for a son, a love 
that s gone unsatisfied these three and twenty years. Is 
that to be denied? You say he’ll not believe. He must, 
j Get up.” 

And almost roughly he pulled her to her feet. She 
clung to him, babbling weakly. 

“Don’t take him from me. I can’t help my nature. 
But don’t take him from me—don’t take-” 

“That will do—go in.” 

And, half supporting, half carrying this hysterical 
creature, he led her towards the house. But, beside 
herself as she was she still held to the one grim fact, that 
on no account must she leave Desmond alone with Ayl- 





WHIRLWIND 


410 

mer. Instinct taught her one chance remained and she 
took it—desperately—hardly knowing what she did. 

Her arms were round his neck and her tear-stained 
face, twisted into a horrible grin, the caricature of itself, 
was lifted close to his. 

“You used to love me. You used to love me. I am 
still your wife.” 

It was so ghastly, such a revolting exhibition, that 
Desmond felt almost nauseated. This leering woman 
who sought to fascinate him as she had fascinated others, 
brought the memory of his dishonour back upon him with 
the resistless might of an avalanche. He put her from 
him quickly. 

“It’s too late. You cannot kindle a fire from burnt-out 
ashes. Twenty-three years ago you wrecked my life. 
Now once again you come between me and my chance of 
happiness* I cant divorce you! I can t make him 
suffer as I have suffered. And you— you , I say, and 
only you are the cause of it. Yes, you who have never 
for one instant troubled how your conduct might react 
upon others- Yet now, when the inevitable result proves 
more than you can bear, you come back and ask me to 
be pitiful. Why should I show pity to you? Why, in 
God’s name, am I to be compassionate? What con¬ 
sideration have I ever had from you? You’ve robbed 
me of my wife; would you roib me of my son as well? 
The craving for paternity is born in all men. Nature 
was strong in me. When we met he didn’t seem a 
stranger. I’ve yearned to him, grown to love him as 
my own. It was scarcely a surprise to hear he was. It 
explained so much. And now, when I have to tell him 
who his father really is, I have to tell him also who yoq 
are. My God! How shall I find words to say it?” 



WHIRLWIND 


411 

Then—then-” whispered Jessica. 

It was such a pitiful little hope that scarcely dared to 
raise its head, and Desmond crushed it immediately. Her 
tears, her pleadings could not turn him from that straight 
and narrow path that lay before him. If he had pity for 
the mother, he knew none for his wife. 

“What! Are you to escape scot free? You, whose 
thoughtless life has brought this misery on all of us? 
I m sick of the cant that would have us ever shelter the 
woman and makes men pretend to commit adultery so 
their wives who have, can keep some show of reputation. 
It s rotten humbug, and, what’s more, it’s an unjust 
usurpation on the woman’s part. Humbug! For no one 
believes in it. Unjust, for on the innocent is piled the 
guilt. What right have you, what excuse have you to 
ask pity and forgiveness? If you claim the right to 
follow your own desires, don’t cavil at the road those 
fancies lead you. Don’t be surprised if some day you 
have to pay for your fun. Your time to pay has come 
now. You’d refuse, and put the past behind you. It 
just can’t be done. The past won’t be dismissed so 
easily. It clings so us, haunts us always, aye, haunts 
the whole world and every man and woman in it. There 
is no death, there is no future, only ever the past again 
and again, in some form or other, present, always with 
us, always waiting, one day to claim its toll.” 

“What are you going to do? Let me know that any¬ 
how.” 

“I’ve told you—tell the facts.” 

And she stood and stared at him, stared at him help¬ 
lessly, knowing she had hoped up to this last, and realising 
she’d hoped to no purpose. 

Her great eyes were fixed and staring, and her lips 


412 


WHIRLWIND 


twitched yet said nothing. She tried, only a dry rattle in 
her throat, and Desmond went on ruthlessly. 

“Silence is impossible. Whatever comes to him, to 
me, to any of us. I’ll have no more lies. The truth shall 
be told now/' 

“Now! Now!” 

“Yes, now!” And he went to the house and opened the 
door. 

“Not to-night!” 

“Yes, to-night. I’ll wait here and tell him. We’ll finish 
the business quickly. None of us can be much the worse, 
whatever happens,” he added, grimly. 

But Jessica stood unable to move. Tears fell un¬ 
checked down her face. She swayed a little; tottered; 
held to a garden chair. 

“He’ll not believe you,” she whispered. 

“He shall believe me.” 

And so for a moment they stood and gazed at one 
another. Never would they understand each other. Even 
the child who should have healed all wounds was only 
made a bone of contention. What ironic force ever threw 
these two together? 

“He may return at any moment,” Desmond said. 
“Hadn’t you better leave us together?” 

Reader, can you understand how, even then, Jessica 
simply could not leave Desmond and Aylmer alone? 
Had you been in her place, what would you have done? 
Would you have left the field clear for Desmond’s ex¬ 
planation? Would you have gone to your room and there 
have waited in an agony of apprehension? Speculating 
on what Desmond said, how Aylmer answered? Waiting 
till one or other came and knocked at your door, and you 
looked up to see if the worst was over, or was not yet 


WHIRLWIND 


413 


begun? Or would you have been brave enough to defy 
Desmond, and to determine that, come what might, you 
would remain and abide by the result? 

Jessica chose the latter way. 

“No! If I can stop you to-night-” 

“Nothing can-” 

But if I can put it off to-night, there mayn’t be another 
chance.” 

“You can’t put it off.” 

She turned to him again. Even now she could not 
credit him. 

“You’d never tell him—before me.” 

“Even before you.” 

“It’s too brutal—it’s inhuman!” 

And then a bright, cheery voice broke across their 
speaking, like a fresh breeze from the sea over the 
strained atmosphere of a dry and thirsty land. 

And, lo! Aylmer was upon them, as light-hearted 
and free from care as though he thought this the best 
possible of all best possible worlds. 




XXXIV 


The sudden incursion of this serene, light-hearted 
presence hurt the two elders as might a burst of gay song 
hurt the prisoner in his cell. It was as though they stood 
in the presence of some spirit, very vivid and alive, that 
should be let alone to go its own bright way. 

“I’m glad neither of you turned in,” said Aylmer, 
drawing a chair near to them. “I’ve something to tell you 
both.” 

But he didn’t tell them. He sat, cigar in hand, happily 
humming a little tune. “And I’m specially glad you’re 
here, Sir,” he added, looking at Desmond. “Because 
you’ve .been so awfully good, you know, and all that, and, 
well, I want you to know, and you ought to, that, well, 
I’m engaged.” 

And Aylmer took a long pull at his cigar to cover his 
nervousness. “I’m engaged.” What a banal phrase it 
seemed! All the trumpets of heaven should have 
sounded. To be engaged might happen to anyone. The 
unusual part of his engagement was the extraordinary 
good fortune he had in winning a girl so far superior to 
every other girl. That was a thing that had never 
happened before. 

“By Jove, what luck!” he exclaimed, as this wonderful 
fortune occurred to him. 

And now more and more impossible it was to speak, 
and Jessica wondered if she would get a respite yet. 

414 






WHIRLWIND 


415 


“I’ll tell you all about it,” said the boy, too full of his 
own happiness to notice the silence of his elders. “When 
I left you I strolled up towards the manor, and she was 
there and so, well, I want you both to know we thorough¬ 
ly understand each other. Mater, congratulate vour only 
child.” 

He went to her and, stooping to kiss her, he found 
both her hands were taking his head between them and 
drawing it down until her lips touched his. 

“I’m so glad. I hope you’ll be so happy.” 

“Don’t think her good enough, I expect, eh?” He 
laughed lightly. “I’m the luckiest man in all the world.” 

And though Desmond said nothing he saw how piteous 
was this very simple, but very poignant, human problem. 
The woman was so obviously sincere in her selfless love 
that almost consumed her; the boy, clean and straight¬ 
forward and happy in his natural love for a nice girl, 
while he himself, the father, who cried out to take his 
son to his heart, yet found himself standing, axe in hand, 
waiting to strike. 

“I’ve told Katie everything,” Aylmer explained, glad 
he could say so honestly. 

“Everything?” cried his mother, for the moment for¬ 
getful how very little Aylmer’s everything could be. 

“Well,” he answered, “I explained I’d no relations— 
you told me that, mother—I said I imagined I’d dropped 
from heaven, and she told me not to be conceited! And 
then I told her what a lot I owed to you, sir, and that I’d 
prospects and all that.” 

And now Desmond began to realise that with every 
word his son spoke, his own mouth was becoming more 
firmly closed. Yet the lad must not continue in his Fool’s 
Paradise. How gladly would Desmond hold his tongue! 


416 


WHIRLWIND 


How gladly allow Jessica to smooth everything over 
were such a course compatible with honourable treatment 
of his friends. 

“You mustn’t be too quick, my boy,” Desmond said. 
“We’re not out of the wood yet, you know.” 

“Oh, you mean her relations. Yes, you once said some¬ 
thing about that. That won’t trouble us much. Miss 
Dalison is with us and that means a lot—Katie’s Katie, 
and, by George, what have I done to deserve such luck!” 

Oh, the confidence of youth! The confidence and 
arrogance of youth when it’s in love! And oh! The con¬ 
fidence and arrogance and colossal impudence of youth 
in love and accepted of its choice! Why, only that very 
week Aylmer would have given half the world to solve 
the problem, and now just because of a young girl’s 
“yes” he could actually laugh away that very same 
difficulty. 

Now Antrobus had almost forgotten the presence of 
his wife. So filled was he with pitiful sympathy for this 
dear lad, that the sinner who was the real cause of the 
catastrophe entirely slipped his mind. 

And she felt something like a very madness of con¬ 
trition and catching her husband’s eye, made some little 
weak, imploring sign for silence. 

And for one second of time Desmond hesitated, as if at 
the last moment seeking some way out. Just so must 
Abraham have paused sword in hand. But no voice 
broke the silence of the night, neither was there any ram 
caught in a thicket near at hand. The sacrifice was de¬ 
manded, and Desmond must offer up his only son. 

One instant he hesitated; then raised his arm and struck; 
struck hard, crashing, smashing a pitiless rain of blows 
that was yet more merciful than hesitating measures. 


WHIRLWIND 


417 


“Aylmer! This can’t go on.” 

He stood behind the boy, still happily lolling in his 
chair, cigar in mouth, and glass on the little table at his 
side. 

“What can’t go on?” 

“Sir Desmond means, you mustn’t be so sure. Her 
father, her relations ...” 

It was a sad little effort; the last flicker of Jessica’s 
strength. She could not finish, and with a little broken 
moan she sank back again into her seat. 

“I wonder what you two have been saying about me ?” 
Aylmer queried. 

And then Jessica sent a little message to him. 

“Remember what I told you only to-night.” 

“Oh, that!” answered the boy lightly. But he had got 
her meaning, that Desmond “might seek to put himself 
right with you.” 

Desmond did not answer Aylmer’s question of “What 
can’t go on?” but came speedily to the climax of his ar¬ 
gument. One comforting thought he had, and that was 
that though the boy must receive this wound (and a ter¬ 
rible, throbbing, tearing wound it would be), he himself 
would be the first to staunch, the first to bind. The sooner, 
therefore, the axe fell, the sooner could it be flung aside, 
and so much quicker could the executioner turn com¬ 
forter. 

And then Desmond believed that though the boy would 
lose the ideal mother of a dream, he would gain a father 
in reality. Hitherto had they groped towards each other 
in the dark, now the light streamed upon them, while 
Nature, the mother of them both, stood by, waiting to 
join their hands. 

“I’m very glad if you’re going to be happy, Aylmer, 



WHIRLWIND 


418 

very glad indeed, but there may be difficulties. Her rela¬ 
tions are very proud, very exclusive, they are people in the 
very best, not merely the smartest, set. You must re¬ 
member that ...” 

Desmond had been standing behind the boy s chair, 
now he came round and sat down opposite, at the other 
side of the table, and leaned across towards his son. 

Desmond went on, while Aylmer sat and smoked as he 
listened. 

‘Tm going to tell you a little story. You may 
think it has nothing to do with you and your affairs, 
but it has, a very great deal. Please give me all your 
attention.” 

“Right you are, sir.” 

Desmond hesitated, and Aylmer looking up, since no re¬ 
ply came, found the elder man gazing at him with a won¬ 
derful light upon his face, a look of love, of pity, yet one 
of pain and sorrow, too. 

“I say, sir—you’re sure there’s nothing wrong? Don’t 
worry about me.” 

“Why not? Don’t you know I look on you almost as 
my son?” 

“You’re too good!” 

Su/ely we may think that both felt the tie uniting 
them more deeply than they knew ? 

And away from them, almost forgotten, out there in 
the deep shadow, sat a woman, with clasped hands, pray¬ 
ing and praying, to some God whom she knew not. Nor 
did she even know she prayed, but pray she did, though 
it was but a whisper : “Aylmer ! Aylmer !” 

“Before I begin, tell me . . . have I proved anything 
but your friend? Your loyal friend?” 

“Never, sir!” 


WHIRLWIND 


419 


‘Then give me your hand and tell me you believe in 
my friendship and in my honesty to you.” 

“Why, of course,” answered Aylmer. 

Then the two men clasped hands across the little 
table, and the father held the lad in so tight a grip the 
boy could not understand. And the curious moon leant 
out of the Gate of Heaven to see what tragedy they played 
down there in the little garden under the Sussex downs. 

“By the way, have you an enemy, sir? Anyone who 
fancies she’s got a grudge against you? Because some¬ 
one’s been blackguarding you to the mater.” 

Antrobus looked across to the deep shadow where he 
could just distinguish the black-robed figure of his wife. 

“I told my son—I told him.” 

But Aylmer treated it almost as a joke and gave his 
own interpretation. “Of course, it was all a lie. My 
mother believes every pitiful tale she hears.” 

But Desmond had not taken his eyes off the black figure 
in the dark, nor did he seem to hear the boy speak. 

“You told Aylmer this?” 

“Yes.” 

“To-night?” 

“Yes.” 

And then he grimly realised how the lad’s mind had al¬ 
ready been prepared against the story that nevertheless 
must be told. He remembered also how she had educated 
Aylmer to think the very worst of the supposedly dead 
father. 

Oh, she had been clever; very clever indeed, but not 
quite wise enough. 

“She doesn’t really believe it. She doesn’t know you 
like I do. I thought you ought to know, that’s all. What 
about the story?” 


420 


WHIRLWIND 


“Oh, my story! It’s very simple, quite short and not 
at all original. It happened to a man I knew when he was 
your age. He was exactly twenty-three, like you. He had 
the same happy temperament, he was clean minded, and 
believed the best of men and women. In many ways you 
are exactly like him. For instance, he too felt very deeply 
and took things to heart, perhaps too much. Well, he mar¬ 
ried, for love, a very beautiful girl, of singular charm, 
very great fascination. Aylmer, do you know there are 
women who cannot resist excitement? Who marry for 
the experience?” 

But the black figure in the dark had risen. It was her¬ 
self picked so ruthlessly to pieces; analysed to her face. 
She lost control of herself a little and staggered to her 
feet. 

“I—I—Aylmer!” 

In truth both the men had forgotten and, rising, turned 
simultaneously towards her. 

“You would leave us,” said Desmond. “I forgot you 
for the moment.” 

He had no desire to be unnecessarily cruel, so again he 
offered her a chance to go. But Jessica had quickly pulled 
herself together. If she is to be racked, then she prefers 
to know the worst at once. Not go and wait and cringe in 
her room. But Aylmer decided for her. 

'‘Don’t go, mater. I have an idea this has something to 
do with your story.” 

“Mine?” 

“Yes; the one you just told me—you remember.” 

“That was perfectly true, Aylmer,” she added quickly. 
“Let us go in. Why should we stay here? Let us 


But the boy had inherited a love for frankness from his 



WHIRLWIND 


421 

father, and very quietly, but with much authority, waived 
the suggestion aside. 

“No! Let us hear both sides.” 

And Jessica again felt the loss of that grip she used 
to have. Hopelessly, she sank back into her seat. 

“Yes?” asked Aylmer, and turned again to his father. 

“The man’s wife was such a woman. She was disap¬ 
pointed in her marriage, anxious for money and luxury 
and so, one day, she left him for a wealthy lover. For her 
father’s sake, everything was hushed up. They each went 
their own ways, she took some other name and went 
abroad. For twenty-three years they drifted apart, never 
meeting, never hearing of one another, and then, after 
all that while, unexpectedly ...” 

“Well?” 

Now Aylmer had been gripped not so much by the 
story as by the manner of its telling, Desmond had spoken 
with a very curious intentness, with such earnest convic¬ 
tion, that he focussed Aylmer’s attention. And Aylmer 
was very ready to hear; he believed Antrobus to be telling 
his own story, of which his mother only knew one side. 
The faithless wife had gone abroad, and then the two 
women had drifted up against each other, and his mother 
had accepted the woman’s version: that was how Aylmer 
saw matters. 

Desmond continued: 

“By that time the father had died and the man had met 
someone else. They loved each other heart and soul; 
they were made for one another. And the man had ample 
grounds for divorce.” 

“He’ll go for it, won’t he—that man?” 

“He can’t. It wouldn’t be playing the game. Listen, 
Aylmer. He found he had a son by his wife, the woman 


WHIRLWIND 


422 

who’d left him, who was leading a life no better than a 
prostitute’s.” 

“A son! I see!” But Aylmer could not follow. He 
knew Desmond had no son. 

“Yes, a boy he’d met under another name. An honest, 
manly fellow he’d grown to love. Neither knew the rela¬ 
tionship between them, but the natural tie drew each to 
the other. There was more than ordinary friendship, or 
affection, between these two. Well, this son was engaged 
to be married. How could the father damn his son by 
dragging the mother through the mire?” 

“Why not?” 

The query rang out sharply. Aylmer felt uncomfort¬ 
able, almost reluctant, to learn more. Yet he could not 
have rested without knowing all there might be to learn. 
This was certainly Antrobus’s own story. Desmond told 
it with the force and power no other man’s story could 
evoke. Yet how could it affect himself? 

And the place w r as so very quiet. There seemed an 
uncanniness out that night. Fleetingly, Aylmer thought 
of that still figure in the background. Was that a sob 
he heard? Impossible! And all the while his eyes were 
held by that stained, terrible face, that stared so stead¬ 
fastly into his own, leaning out across the little table 
through the blackness of the night. 

For it had grown dark. There were no stars, even the 
moon had gone, and hid somewhere at the back of heaven, 
as though afraid of something going to and fro upon the 
earth. And certainly the garden was full of strangeness; 
full of fantastic things. 

Aylmer could not turn away from Desmond’s eyes. It 
was like looking into a crater, fires were there waiting to 
flame up. It was like looking into a well where some great 


WHIRLWIND 


423 


star had fallen. Tears were there and many other things 
not to be read. And in the quiet voice of Desmond was 
a depth and meaning untranslatable, yet comprehensible. 
It held the force and magnitude of subterranean waters 
boiling and foaming in the hollows of the earth. Waters 
yet throbbing with the pangs of the world’s travail, slowly 
coming out of chaos. There was an anger and rebellious 
justice in the voice, as of some great beast lashing in 
sullen rage at its prison bars; or the cry of some crime 
unavenged that claimed a judgment. 

And the figure was so still; it did not make the slightest 
movement, only it sat there in the darkness and looked at 
Aylmer so that he could not turn away. 

Yet whatever was out that night, whatever was com¬ 
ing, Aylmer knew that thing was coming to him also. 
The very atmosphere was full of warning, stretched tight 
as if in another moment there must be some great crack. 

The lad leaned towards his father across the little table. 
The two men’s faces nearly touched. And Desmond’s 
voice sank a little lower, a little deeper, and a little sterner, 
too, as he took up his tale again. 

“You ask why not drag out the mother’s life? Listen! 
What do you suppose the girl’s people would have said? 
What do you suppose (were it possible in your case) the 
Dalisons would say?” 

And then the boy put down his cigar very carefully 
and paid great heed to that burning end flaming well out 
beyond the little table. He was curiously methodical just 
then, and felt nothing of the disquiet of the moment past. 
And he was all attention. There was far more in the 
story than he had supposed. What that might be he could 
not have told, but in some inconceivable way most cer¬ 
tainly the story concerned him also? 


424 


WHIRLWIND 


Aylmer put his elbows on the table, and rested his chin 
upon his hands, and waited for the elder to continue. 

But Desmond sat immovable, and looked at his son. 
And it was all so very quiet. One blade of grass whis¬ 
pering to another, one leaf falling would have made a 
noise. And then the boy asked : “Who was he ?” 

“Presently! Presently!” The tension was broken and 
the voice took up its burden. 

“Listen carefully. The son thought this father dead, 
had been taught to believe it better so, that he had no rela¬ 
tions in the world, except his mother, who lived abroad 
and carefully guarded him from the truth. But the girl s 
people asked questions. She was young, very young. She 
was an heiress with very happy prospects. Much was ex¬ 
pected of her. They asked with perfect propriety : ‘Who 
is this boy who would marry into our family? Where 
does he come from? What are his antecedents?’ Re¬ 
member, they were exclusive people in the best, not merely 
the smartest, set.” 

The man’s words fell slowly, almost monotonously in 
their evenness, yet every one had found its mark, every 
sentence done its work. 

Now Aylmer seemed taken by panic. Suddenly he 
loudly called to Desmond, yes, almost shouted: “Who is 
he?” 

“Presently! Presently! You shall hear everything,” and 
the man held such authority the boy was forced into a sul¬ 
len silence. And -then once more the man took up the tale. 

“The father found, partly by chance, that the boy was 
his own son, by the wife he had more than a right to 
divorce. His love for the boy cried for recognition, but 
beyond all that he was bound in honour to tell the truth, 
to the girl, to her people, to the boy himself,” 


WHIRLWIND 


425 


And then as he spoke those last words the man’s voice 
faltered for the first time. Slowly he ended, for the tale 
was told, and the end was reached. It remained for Ayl¬ 
mer to add the sequel, and so he waited for what might 
follow. And nothing happened. The silence grew un¬ 
bearable. It seemed interminable to Desmond. Would 
the lad never speak ? 

And still they stared into each other’s eyes, father and 
son, silent, each instinctively fearing the end. 

Then Aylmer spoke huskily: “Tell me—who was—the 
father?” 

But Desmond did not answer, and the silence went on. 

“Why don’t you answer me ?” 

But Desmond only answered with a look, and again 
the silence fell. Then Aylmer, leaning wide across the 
table, almost thrusting his face into his father’s, whis¬ 
pered : “You!” 

Then the spell about them split. The boy’s head fell 
upon his arms across the table, and none could see the 
agony upon his face. 

His father rose, went round to him and put his arms 
about him. “My dear, dear lad.” 

It was the moment he had waited for. That for which 
he had longed. That it had come so cruelly, he could not 
help, but the cruelty was over; now he could raise the 
bowed head, and comfort the stricken heart. 

“It’s not true!” 

Aren t we alike? Don’t you feel the truth of it?” 

Aylmer had risen and he stood, shaking, shivering, 
holding the table for support. “It’s not true!” he whis¬ 
pered again. And the woman in the background rose, 
longing to go to her son, but dreading how he might look 
upon her, what words he would say, and yet, poor soul, 


WHIRLWIND 


426 

never had her heart so gone out to him as when she saw 
the young head bowed in agony. 

He heard her move; and his hand went out as if com¬ 
manding her attention. 

“Say it isn’t true!” 

“It is true,” she said. 

Then Aylmer gave way. “Oh, my God!” 

The words came miserably, brokenly, hopelessly. It 
was the sob of one past surprise that Fate could deal such 
pain. They held no meaning. They were merely the ex¬ 
pression of the climax. 

“Oh, my God!” 

But Jessica could feel. She was with him in an instant. 
Forgetting her fears, careless how he received her, she was 
by his side, kneeling, clutching at him, pouring out her 
vindication. 

“No! No! my darling! It’s not true! Not all of it! 
Remember what I told you. You do remember, don’t 
you? You see now why I told you, don’t you?” 

And Aylmer turned to the kneeling woman, and took 
her hands in his, and looked into her eyes. 

“And he, my hero, the man I honoured, almost wor¬ 
shipped?” 

And Aylmer dropped her hands and turned blindly to 
the house. He wanted to be alone, quite alone, like a 
wounded animal. 

But Desmond was in his path. This was not to be the 
end, this turning away in solitary grief? He put out a 
hand to stay the boy. 

“Let me go, please.” 

Aylmer had stopped abruptly, as though his father had 
a magician’s touch that turned to stone. 

And now Desmond caught the boy and looked swiftly 


WHIRLWIND 


427 

into the averted face. He wondered at the curt, dry voice, 
the change in the lad, and was afraid. 

“Boy, what is it? Why do you look like that? What’s 
the matter?” 

“Let me go, please. I don’t want to hear any more.” 

“Lad, I had to tell you. You must know that. Katie 
has to know. Her people, too. Aylmer!” 

And then something happened, entirely unforeseen by 
either the father or the mother. I don’t think either of 
them knew exactly what they had expected, but certainly 
they had neither of them looked to see what suddenly, 
swiftly, Aylmer did. 

While his father had been speaking he had stood very 
still, only shrinking a little at the touch of that hand upon 
his shoulder, and answering a little breathlessly. Yet all 
the while a fire had kindled within him, and now blazed 
forth, leaping the control he sought to place upon it. 

Suddenly, swiftly, he turned, and the two men stood 
face to face. Then Aylmer sprang at his father and 
struck him across the mouth. And again and again! 

“You Beast! You beast! You beast! To lie to me 
like that!” 

Now Jessica had remained crouching where Aylmer 
had left her. But when she heard him now, she rose with 
a little cry of joy. She had not lost him. Her mother 
love had conquered. She held up her head once more, 
honoured, respected, loved. 

But Desmond staggered under the blows, then strug¬ 
gled with the boy and forced him down into a seat. 

“Aylmer, you savage! You fool! Great heavens! 
Can’t you see you had to learn? Face it like a man!” 

But the fire that had flamed so fiercely had burnt itself 
out, and it was a cold but shaken lad that answered back. 


428 


WHIRLWIND 


“Sir Desmond, I’m sorry for what I did just now. I’m 
ashamed. It was so utterly beneath me, to touch you. 
Do you know, I’ve always thought I’d like to kill my 
father. But, somehow, you don’t seem worth it.” 

“You must believe ...” 

“Oh, I quite believe you are my father. She said so— 
it’s the rest . . .” 

“The rest?” 

“Yes. That’s the sort of lie my father would tell. 
You forget I’ve known my mother all my life, you only 
a short time. Whose word should I take first? I want 
you to understand I’m going to stick to my mother.” 

“Have I no claim upon you ? What right have you to 
condemn me off-hand? If you don’t believe me, go to my 
lawyers.” 

“I’m not going to your damned lawyers for my mother’s 
character. I’ve always known the sort of man my father 
was. This is just the hellish lie he would delight in. He 
is the very last man in the world I’d believe.” 

And Jessica took Aylmer’s hand almost timidly. She 
felt such gratitude, such exaltation, there was scarcely 
room for this wonderful, unlooked-for joy. 

But Desmond looked at the boy he loved. “So this is 
the end?” he murmured. 

“Yes! This is the end. Oh! She knew you—the real 
you! Not the man I was fool enough—but that’s over. 
I’m going back to Italy with her to-morrow. As for 
Katie, if she sides against me, she may go with the rest. 
I’m cutting it all and leaving this hell of a place behind 
me!” 

“Aylmer, for God’s sake . . .” 

But Jessica stood between them. “He is of age. Let 
him choose between us.” 


WHIRLWIND 


429 


Aylmer looked to his father. Then he turned and 
looked at the mother, the beloved, insulted mother, then 
back to the man who had sought to blackguard that 
mother with lies. 

“That it should be you—you—of all men!” 

Desmond took a half step towards the lad. But Aylmer 
backed away with a stifled sob. Backed away from his 
father, then went quickly into the house. 

“Aylmer!” 

But Jessica followed, shut the door in Desmond’s face 
—shut it fast and sure—and neither wife nor son heard 
the cry: 

“Aylmer! My son! Aylmer! My son! My son!” 


XXXV 


Our erratic story now bids us be in three places at 
once. We can follow Jessica and Aylmer to their rooms 
or watch Desmond, or go with Margaret to her oratory 
and see her fall upon her knees in that quiet place seeking 
some comfort for her soul. 

But, if you please, I would prefer not to intrude upon 
that tender conscience. We may be sure that courage 
and peace were vouchsafed her and that is sufficient to 
know. 

As to Jessica, whatever thankfulness she felt, it did 
not, I am sure, cause any falling upon her knees. But 
she certainly felt great joy at her victory and could 
scarcely realise that she was, as she termed it, “safe.” 
She had looked for that mysterious “call of the blood” 
one hears so much about, to unite father and son, but the 
tie had snapped at the first strain put upon it. Antrobus 
was no longer the hero, while she, the liar, the social out¬ 
cast, the leper, who had poisoned her son’s mind whose 
guilt was admitted, yea, even by herself, sat triumphantly 
enthroned. 

Ironical—but possible. If you tell me the situation is 
not possible, I tell you in my turn you are coming to a 
very hasty conclusion. Do you never read the newspa¬ 
pers? Do you never go about and hear people talk? 

Presently she put out her light, and going over to the 
window drew aside the curtain and peeped out. The 
white flowers in the garden looked whiter, the dark 


430 


WHIRLWIND 


43 * 

shadows were almost black. It was all very quiet, no 
white owl fluttered like a ghostly lamp against the dark, 
only a few stars sentinelled the palace of the moon, 
nothing moved save those few clouds that looked like 
great birds sailing on vast wings, and there was that bent 
and broken figure, very still, very sorrowful and lonely, 
lying, as it had fallen, across the little table, arms flung 
wide and head bent down upon them. It looked almost 
terrible; it was so still, so silent. It was not natural to be 
so still, not canny to be so terrible in silence. 

Jessica wondered “what will he do now” ? And a little 
fear came that she had perhaps succeeded too easily. 
Yet how fallen were the mighty. What wretchedness in 
that abandonment. The night was warm and she drew 
her curtain back a little, venturing to lean out further 
yet. 

Suppose Desmond had been taken ill? Or his heart 
suddenly failed? Suppose he were dead? Should anyone 
be called? Was there anything she ought to do? She 
had never seen death in any form and the thought of 
death was revolting. Yet she really felt quite anxious 
about Desmond. 

And just as little trivial things will come to us in mo¬ 
ments of great tension, so in the middle of her wonder 
Jessica noticed the patches of black upon the grass next 
patches of cold white where the moon lay thick upon the 
dew, and it was beautiful. Like a charcoal drawing, black 
and white with something of monkish austerity. Jessica 
shivered a little but continued looking out until a little bat 
flew by, and then flew by again as if anxious to further 
an acquaintance with her. Then she withdrew her head 
and fastened the blind across the window so the little bat 
might not wander in. 


43 2 


WHIRLWIND 


And eventually the figure rose and stumbled across the 
fields till it knocked at Fell’s door. 

* * * * * 

The next day the news reached the Manor. It came in 
two letters from Aylmer sent by hand in the course of 
the morning. One was addressed to Ralph, the other 
to his daughter. The Squire received his at that post¬ 
prandial hour when he retired to his “study” and his 
“business.” 

But business, tobacco, pipe and matches were all for¬ 
gotten as the Squire read, and re-read, that most distress¬ 
ing letter. 

“Dear, dear! Antrobus got a wife! But she’s dead! 
Mrs. Forsyth—Lady Antrobus ! That charming woman.” 
And the Squire blushed a little as he remembered how 
very charming he had thought the lady. “Why aren’t they 
living together? Incompatibility of temper, I suppose. 
Why should the boy be going away with her?” 

He read the letter again, and the kindly Squire felt 
very sorry for the boy. Clearly there had been some catas¬ 
trophe at the cottage, and Aylmer had written a very 
proper letter, and released Katie. Perhaps, after all, 
everything was for the best, and meanwhile this ex¬ 
perience would be a lesson to them all. And he repeated 
the comforting if ambiguous phrase “it would be a lesson 
to them all.” 

But the matter refused to be dismissed. “Why had 
Lady Antrobus never claimed her position? Why had 
she taken another name? Was she divorced? Was Des¬ 
mond divorced? And Aylmer was only known as For¬ 
syth, yet his real name was Antrobus.” 

The Squire was very far from wishing to sit in judg¬ 
ment on anyone, but he could not help knowing that the 


WHIRLWIND 


433 


wives of men in the position of Desmond Antrobus did 
not usually assume another name without some very good 
reason. He remembered the Grange and its undesirable 
tenant, and began to wonder what there was about Ford- 
combe, that ladies with mysterious pasts and lurid presents 
found so congenial. 

Then he took up a hat and went out, meaning to distract 
his thoughts by giving some unnecessary orders to Crock- 
ford, but he found himself pacing up and down Lady 
Katharine’s walk because it was unlikely he would be dis¬ 
turbed there and he could endeavour to sort matters out 
quietly. 

But very soon he noticed a stray feather on the grass 
(the last sheddings of the peacocks’ tails), and that feather 
led to another feather, and before long he had quite a hand¬ 
ful and nowhere to put them down. Thereupon he re¬ 
turned to the house to leave them indoors. And just as 
he reached the hall his sister came in from another door, 
and at once Ralph shifted the burden to Margaret’s 
shoulders. 

“Can you believe it ? Can you understand such a thing?” 
exclaimed Ralph, as Margaret read Aylmer’s letter. 

The two had gone into the study to talk more pri¬ 
vately. Indeed it was an astounding letter, but it ac¬ 
counted for all that she had learned from Desmond the 
night before. 

This was the letter Margaret read: 

“My Dear Mr. Dalison. —You have always been so kind 
and especially so last night, that I feel I must write at once 
and tell you of certain circumstances which have arisen, 
and must alter the whole course of my life. I find that Sir 
Desmond Antrobus and my mother are husband and wife 


434 


WHIRLWIND 


and that my real name is Antrobus. They parted about 
the time I was born under circumstances I need not enter 
into. But it is quite clear that I cannot continue my 
secretaryship, and it is equally clear, at any rate to me, that 
my place is with my mother. I cannot explain any further, 
and of course, I realise that any hope I may have had of 
making Katie my wife is now quite out of the question, and 
I am writing to tell her so. ,, 

“At any rate he gives up Katie,” said the Squire. “That 
at least is satisfactory.” 

“But if Aylmer is Desmond’s son he is of quite good 
family, and has a very distinguished father. He will be 
very rich. Many people would be glad to have such a 
son-in-law.” 

This had never occurred to Ralph. He didn’t quite 
like having it pointed out to him now. 

“But the mother?” he exclaimed. “And he means to 
go with her.” 

“Oh! But he mustn’t! He mustn’t!” 

Margaret spoke from her better knowledge. It would 
never do for Aylmer to ruin his life in that way. 

“I don’t see, my dear, that it’s any business of ours to 
interfere,” said Ralph. 

But Margaret’s thoughts had flown to Desmond. She 
was thinking how he must be suffering and would he 
write or come to her ? She had felt something almost ap¬ 
proaching a twinge of jealousy when she had said to him 
“How fond you are of Aylmer.” Well! This news fully 
accounted for his affection! 

“Would you speak to Katie?” Margaret realised that 
Ralph was expecting an answer. She would do so at 
once, but the girl coming in at that moment spared her 
the trouble. 


WHIRLWIND 


435 


Katie knew, by Aylmer’s letter to herself, that her 
father would also receive one, and the moment she en¬ 
tered the room she knew the letter had already been not 
only received but discussed. 

“You have had a letter from Aylmer, haven’t you, 
father?” 

“Yes, my dear, a very proper letter. Nothing could be 
better. It does him great credit.” 

“Well, dad, what about it?” 

“What about it? My dear child, hasn’t he told you? 
He’s going away with—er—with his mother.” 

“I don’t see why, because Aylmer’s father and mother 
can’t get on together, he and I shouldn’t.” 

Katie loved her “dear old authorities” very dearly. 
They were “perfect pets,” but belonged to another world, 
and she had no intention of allowing them to upset hers. 

And then Margaret spoke, and told what she knew of 
the history of “Mrs. Forsyth,” and what she had to tell 
was quite sufficiently damning. 

“I think that settles it,” said Dalison, when his sister 
had finished, a little flushed and excited after her recital. 
“No wonder the boy releases you.” 

It was a nasty blow to Katie. She was only nineteen, 
innocent, but not ignorant. She had never had any con¬ 
tact with the seamy side of life, and, coming face to face 
with it thus, it hurt. Ralph saw the trouble in her face 
and went to her with all the kindness of his warm heart. 

“Katie. You will see things as I do. You know I 
only want your happiness. But I could not, I really could 
not, consent to such a marriage. There are so many dif¬ 
ficulties—besides the mother—and—and—of course if she 
were out of the way, if she consented never to communi¬ 
cate with either of you again-” 



436 


WHIRLWIND 


Heavens, thought the Squire, what was he about to 
say? He had meant to comfort Katie and bid her be 
brave, but before he had fully thought how to express the 
love and sympathy he felt, he found himself nearly con¬ 
senting to an engagement he imagined he was most anx¬ 
ious to break off. He had only stopped just in time. He 
was no good at that sort of thing. Why had not Mar¬ 
garet “helped him out” ? 

But Margaret did help him out. At that very moment 
she said—“And then Ralph? What then?” 

As usual, it was not quite the help he wanted, but it 
would serve. He could compromise. 

“I might think it over. It’s not Aylmer’s fault his 
mother’s what she is. And after all he’s Desmond’s son. 
But while he takes this line—well—my dear—you must 
be a sensible girl.” 

Dalison considered he was firm, yet kind, and ex¬ 
ceedingly diplomatic. And just then he caught sight of 
Crockford mowing the lawn, and instantly the Squire 
“providentially” remembered his forgotten orders, picked 
up his hat and passed through the window, happy in the 
thought that the affair, so far as he was concerned, was 
done with. 

“It will blow over,” he said to himself. “Blow over, 
and settle down.” 

But where it would blow over, or on whom it would 
settle down, he never stopped to consider. 

“Dear old dad,” said Katie, watching her father’s re¬ 
treating figure, “he’s given us a loophole already.” 

“You mean should she consent to your father’s terms? 
After all, she has been a splendid mother, and suppose 
Aylmer refused? And what do you propose to live on, 
Katie? I doubt if Aylmer has anything beyond what his 


WHIRLWIND 


437 


mother allows him. And I imagine he will give that up 
now, and he is not the man to live on his wife’s money.” 

“It does seem rather a mess, but I don’t see how it 
alters Aylmer,” said Katie. 

She was a plucky child and believed that circumstances 
could always be made to give up their dead, if only one 
went the right way to make them. 

Now, as she spoke, she saw Fell cross into the forecourt 
and join the Squire, and they stood together awhile shak¬ 
ing their heads, and Katie knew they, too, were discussing 
the situation. Presently her father passed on and Fell 
stood in the window seeking admittance. 

“Is it true Mrs. Forsyth is Sir Desmond’s wife?” she 
asked as Fell entered. 

“I’m afraid so,” he answered. “I’ve always known she 
was alive and living somewhere. And I also knew why 
they had separated. I’ve been urging him for months to 
get free.” 

“In that case, I suppose there’d be rather a scandal. 
That makes things—awkward.” 

Katie smiled very bravely and nodded to Fell as she 
went out of the room. No one would have guessed, to 
look at her, how nearly the catastrophe to Desmond 
touched herself. 

“What a sport that girl is,” cried Fell, in admiration, 
when the door had closed behind her. 

“She is very brave,” answered Margaret. “Well?” 

She had been longing to hear of Desmond, she guessed 
the two friends had met and talked things over. 

“Desmond came to me last night. We hammered it 
out every way till all hours. The boy means to go with 
his mother. Won’t believe anything against her.” 

And then Fell came to his real objective, and asked Mar- 


WHIRLWIND 


438 

garet straightforwardly to go and help this friend who 
seemed quite broken up. “I can’t help him,” said Fell, 
“it’s a woman’s work to do that.” 

“But of course I’ll go.” 

Margaret rose at once. She could not sit at home and 
nurse her own grief when much greater sorrows were 
calling for her ministry. 

The night before she had vowed to God, by the faith 
that was in her, not to see Desmond again unless she 
could meet him only with simple friendship. With what 
agony, what tears, she had offered up her heart, we may 
guess very well. But finally she had found the compassion 
and help she had sought, and now her love for the man 
was consumed in pity for the father, a pity so much 
greater and finer that it gave her a new strength, and a 
surer peace, than any she had known for many days. 

“But,” said Margaret, pausing half-way towards the 
door, “this poor boy. He’s throwing everything away.” 

“You know what Desmond is! He offered his proofs 
but won’t force them. Aylmer and his mother leave Ford- 
combe this afternoon.” 

“But what future is there for him? It seems such a 
waste!” 

She would have given much to save Aylmer from him¬ 
self had it been possible. And then, as she lingered, trying 
to think of some helpful plan, the door was opened and a 
servant asked her “if she would see Sir Desmond Antro- 
bus, who was in the drawing-room.” 

But before we follow Margaret to her interview with 
Desmond, we must return once more to Aylmer’s cottage, 
and see how our friends there were feeling after their 
night’s rest. 


XXXVI 


When Jessica had safely shut the little bat out and at 
length “sought her couch” (that I believe is the correct 
phrase), she fell at once into her usual guileless sleep. 
But if she had slept well, Aylmer most certainly had not. 
There were rings under his eyes and a haggard look in 
his face that told of long hours of unrest. 

“We will go to London this afternoon and on to Italy 
as soon as possible,” were almost the first words he said. 

“But your home, your things,” cried Jessica. 

“I shall get Fell to have them sold.” 

And then he had asked a very curious question. “By 
the way, mother, what money have you?” 

“Why, my dear, plenty.” 

“I mean, what money from grandfather?” 

“Nothing. About two hundred and fifty a year pos¬ 
sibly. Why?” 

But Aylmer was doing some rather hard thinking, and 
Jessica examined again the boy’s white face that had so 
startled her when she first caught sight of it. Aylmer 
smiled to her across the breakfast table with a fixed, 
forced smile, and, in her turn, Jessica began to think. 

“I shall go up to the Manor and say good-bye,” said 
Aylmer, later on. 

But to this remark his mother made no answer. 

* * * * $ 


439 


440 


WHIRLWIND 


Now let us go back to the Manor and follow Margaret 
into the drawing-room where Desmond is waiting. 

The first greetings over, the first phrases uttered, and 
Desmond found it easy to go on. 

The windows were open to the summer, and the room 
sweet with flowers, very fair in panelling and carved 
plaster ceiling, and rich with china and old furniture. 

But Desmond felt little of its beauty that morning. 
Very quietly he told Margaret all that had happened, yet 
without any self pity, but as it were repeating facts for 
which he sought some explanation. 

“But you’ve found your son,” Margaret said, “and when 
he has had time to think then he will acknowledge the 
truth, he cannot help himself.” 

“He’s sent in his resignation. They go away to-day. 
After all, from his point of view, he’s right to stick to her. 
Only I’d not thought of it. That was absurd, because, 
with his ideas, it’s the only thing he could do. But I’d 
never thought of it.” 

As Margaret listened to the slow voice and remembered 
the strong personality of yesterday, all the maternity in 
her love rose and challenged the right of the sinner to 
work such havoc as this before her. 

There is no sterner judge than a righteous woman 
roused, and no severer condemnation is ever meted out 
than the punishment she deals the sinner of her own sex. 

“Desmond,” she asked, “Desmond, is she to go scot 
free? That woman who has hurt every one of us?” 

He had never seen her in this mood and was surprised. 
He had forgotten that every woman is pitiless at 
heart. 

“I’m neither saint nor angel,” she continued, and then 
pondered how to point out that if Aylmer went with 


WHIRLWIND 


441 


Jessica no one was benefited, and everyone suffered, ex¬ 
cept the mother. 

But Desmond had begun to understand. 

“We are tied, my dear! He has refused to listen, but, 
as you say, sooner or later he must know, and in my heart 
I’m clinging to the hope it will be soon. Then he’ll 
come back, and he and Katie may be happy. But if I di¬ 
vorced his mother, the scandal would always stick to them, 
and how could you and I be happy, even if you married 
me, knowing our selfishness had spoiled our children’s 
lives. Besides, we elders have no right to stand in the 
way of youth.” 

“It never occurred to me you were not young. But we 
are both of us—getting on.” Margaret began to feel 
faded, and to recognise the touch of old age upon her 
And she shivered a little, as one shivers sometimes on a 
sunny day and with no reason. 

“I came to tell you this and also something else. So 
long as I live I shall always love you. But, after to-day, 
don’t let us speak of it again. There will be no need. 
You and I have a sweet sacred thing hidden away deep in 
our hearts. Let us keep it holy.” 

And thus they sealed the pact between them, and if 
they renounced much they gained more than they gave up, 
in their defeat that was a spiritual victory. 

And then the fighting instinct lifted its head once more, 
and it was something of the old Desmond come back that 
sprang to its feet and stood looking down on Margaret. 

“What have I done,” he cried, “that my love for my 
boy, even my love for you, should be turned into a curse ? 
Is there some unknown, unforgivable sin of my fathers, 
the third or fourth generation back, and God now collects 
His debt with interest?” 


442 


WHIRLWIND 


“Desmond, you don’t mean that!” 

“Don’t I ? I think I do. Don’t tell me it’s the visita¬ 
tion of a blessed Providence. I could believe in Provi¬ 
dence better without it.” 

But though it pained her, she was glad to see the tree 
was bending back and, after the storm, would stand tall 
and straight again. 

“Desmond! Do something for me! Show yourself the 
good fighter you are. I know the battle’s hard for you. 
All the more glory for the victor. Am I to fight your 
battle and mine also?” 

It was almost a confession; it was certainly an appeal. 
Desmond responded instantly. He knew to what she re¬ 
ferred when she spoke of her own battle, and as he looked 
into her eyes, smiling so bravely into his, he very sol¬ 
emnly promised she should never have cause to be asham¬ 
ed of him again. 

“And now, it’s good-bye, don’t you think?” he said. 

Margaret trembled a little, but her voice was quite 
steady when she answered. 

“For awhile perhaps it would be better.” 

And just as he turned away, had almost reached the 
door, another visitor was announced. 

“Mrs. Forsyth.” 

And Jessica entered upon her name, careful to give 
Margaret no time to announce herself as “not at home.” 

For an instant Margaret stood amazed. Then turned 
with the full intent of bidding her visitor go. But, in¬ 
stead, she found herself gazing at a woman far more mis¬ 
tress of the situation than she herself; one without any of 
the effrontery or the audacity that, under the circum¬ 
stances, might have been looked for; a woman, standing 
just inside the door, perfectly dressed, perfectly self-pos- 


WHIRLWIND 


443 


sessed, a distinguished personage of undoubted breeding, 
with a little flitting, deprecatory smile upon her lips. And 
if Margaret wondered how this pariah managed to look 
as though she were a welcome member of the family, 
Jessica knew she meant no harm but was, on the contrary, 
about to do a very heroic thing. She was the first to 
speak. 

“I almost expected to see you here,” she said, looking at 
Desmond. “Well, it will save another explanation.” 

But Margaret had recovered herself, and it was in the 
coldest voice she hinted that Jessica was presumably there 
for some definite purpose. 

“If you would give me two minutes.” 

Now the words, as written, looked like a request; but 
as Jessica spoke them they sounded like the wish of a very 
great lady, who never doubted for one moment that she 
would be obeyed. 

“You must excuse me if I wonder what we can pos¬ 
sibly have to discuss,” answered Margaret. And if Jes¬ 
sica’s voice had been that of a great lady who knew her 
wishes were commands, Margaret’s was that of a Prin¬ 
cess who barely recognised the existence of the great lady 
at all. 

It was a little passage of arms wherein Margaret held 
the better weapons. It was certainly a difficult atmosphere 
for Jessica. I think she must have felt rather as the devil 
must feel when he revisits heaven and finds himself sur¬ 
rounded by nothing but angels. 

“Please don’t send me away till you hear why I’ve 
called,” she said. 

It was a very disarming little reply and so beautifully 
spoken that Margaret would have put herself in the 
wrong had she done as she would have wished. 


444 


WHIRLWIND 


And Jessica still smiled. She expected nothing less than 
the treatment she had received, but still it was a new expe¬ 
rience to be snubbed. 

Having gained an opening she proceeded as expedi¬ 
tiously as she could. If her presence was resented by 
Margaret, she herself certainly had no desire to stay longer 
in the house than she need. 

“I wanted to ask if you would give this letter to Aylmer 
when he comes to say good-bye. Will you?” and Jessica 
held out a little letter. “It’s rather important. I’ve writ¬ 
ten what I haven’t the courage to tell him to his face.” 

And then Margaret, aye, and Desmond, too, looked up 
at her quickly. What could she have to say she lacked the 
courage to speak? But Jessica still stood before them 
with her curious little enigmatical smile; and nothing was 
to be read in her face. 

“Why have you written?” Desmond asked. “You 

haven’t-” But he dared not voice the hope within 

him. 

But she guessed very well what he meant and turned 
to him with a little reassuring nod. And when she an¬ 
swered him it was in the same sweet low voice and charm 
and ease, as though they merely spoke of the weather, or 
the theatres, or any ordinary matter. And if once or 
twice her nerves got a little edged, and she answered a 
little satirically Margaret always admitted the speaker 
never for one instant lost her singular charm. And these 
are the words that Jessica spoke, as though they were of 
no moment. 

“Yes! You are right! I’ve said good-bye to him. 
He doesn’t know, but I have.” 

And then indeed the little smile vanished and the voice 
sank so low as to be scarcely heard. Then, too, Jessica’s 



WHIRLWIND 


445 


courage ebbed away and left her very friendless and for¬ 
lorn and feeling as a sailor marooned on a desert island 
would feel, watching some ship sail past, unmindful of 
him, back to the homeland he can never hope to see 
again. 

But Jessica was quick to dissipate any idea of pity. 
She had no desire to excite that amiable but irritating 
virtue, and with a little shrug and gesture of her hands, 
almost foreign, she said: 

“You’ve won, that’s what it comes to! I came a cropper 
at the last fence.” 

“Your repentance comes a little late,” he answered. 

Jessica replied instantly and emphatically: 

“I don’t repent, not the very least bit in the world. 
You’ve won—that’s all—but I repent of nothing.” 

And a very shocking, immoral confession! But, alas! 
Jessicas do not repent, they only regret. Two very dif¬ 
ferent states of mind. And Jessica didn’t look even re¬ 
gretful. Straight and tall, and beautifully garbed, she 
stood, gracefully at ease, mistress of herself, very victor¬ 
ious, and the least bit in the world annoyed at being 
classed with those who whine. 

“Don’t run away with the absurd idea I’m contrite,” 
she continued. “I have no intention of going into moral 
mourning. It’s quite simple—I’ve played and lost. I give 
him up. I take myself off. And everyone can live happily 
ever after.” 

Personally, I am very glad that Jessica remained con¬ 
sistent. I could not have borne to see her turning to 
tears. I don’t think I should quite have believed in them. 
Nature moves slowly, and characters do not turn sud¬ 
denly in the night like milk. Whatever faults we have 
noticed in Jessica, and I do not think we have glossed many 


WHIRLWIND 


446 

of them over, inconsistency was surely not among the 
number. So why look for sudden remorse and soulful 
sniffings at the odour of sanctity? 

I am grateful to her that she did not teach me to 
despise her, as yourself would have done had she suddenly 
repented, there being obviously nothing else left to do. 
As it is you may dislike her, but I doubt it, you may say 
you never wish to hear of her again (and I doubt that 
also), but if you are truthful, I defy you to tell me you 
despise her. 

And why is your thorough-going sinner always re¬ 
ceived with such consideration in heaven ? Even the devil 
finds a hearty welcome whenever he has time to go 
there. 

The only thing that puzzled Desmond was, why should 
Tessica throw up the game just when it was hers? And 
when he asked her this she looked at him for a moment 
and, in her turn, put this question- 

“Do you really think it w r as?” 

And then Jessica found all the elasticity and lightness 
gone out of her. She sat in the first chair at hand; she 
could not have stood another moment. 

“He made me,” she whispered. 

Then Margaret went swiftly and radiantly to Antro- 
bus and cried: 

“I said he must know the truth.” 

But if her own defeat was hard, another woman’s tri¬ 
umph was impossible. Very quickly Jessica replied, and it 
was more the moan of some animal that knew the death 
blow has been dealt than a defiance. 

“He doesn’t! He doesn’t! That is—not quite. Don’t 
you understand? He suspects, that’s all, but enough.” 

Jessica paused, she found it difficult to get her breath, 



WHIRLWIND 


447 


She had to strain for it, and try to keep her voice steady, 
and to show a brave face to those two people who were so 
terribly in the right. 

When the race is lost; when the winner is seen dashing 
past the winning post, while thunderous cheers come roll¬ 
ing along the course, it is hard to answer to whip and 
spur with another gallant spurt. 

Jessica realised that she hadn’t a ghost of a chance; she 
knew she was done, but tired and worn, dazed and dead, 
she yet went gamely on. 

“That’s what brought me here. What nothing else, not 
even the truth, could make me do, this has.” 

Again she broke off for a little breath. Whip and spur 
were merciless. Her eyes were blinded so she could 
scarcely see, yet she must go on. There was more to be 
told, more to be explained, and then, well, she would not 
be beaten too badly if she could help it. 

She must get to the end somehow, and finish up among 
the losers. She forgot the spectators. She never knew 
that as she struggled on they began to feel first sorry and 
then pitiful. She scarcely saw them; all she could see as 
she gazed out before her was the white boyish face with 
rings under the eyes. And she only felt very, very tired, 
and that she must go on because it would be so disgrace¬ 
ful to give up. 

“I shall never forget last night; his wonderful cham¬ 
pionship of his mother. You two good people can never 
know what that meant to me, and I made, oh, such re¬ 
solves for the future.” 

Again that little strain for breath, and again the re¬ 
sponse to whip and spur. 

“This morning we tried to meet as though nothing had 
happened. We talked trivialities. But we’d both had time 


WHIRLWIND 


448 

to think and I was nervous, anxious, terribly. He mooned 
about, white and haggard, trying to be bright. It was the 
most ghastly thing I’ve ever known. Now and again he d 
look at me when he thought I shouldn’t notice. I can t 
face that look, the moment I saw it I knew he’d begun— 
to suspect.” 

And Margaret, picturing what the meeting with Ayl¬ 
mer must have been, the mutual suspicions, the mother 
fighting with her fears, and the final, horrible, conviction, 
felt only admiration for the courage that forced Jessica 
to go through the scene once more, detail by detail, with 
her conquerors. 

Yet she didn’t feel very much of a conqueror. This 
agonised, beaten yet courageous mother, who told her 
story so simply, so straightforwardly, so without self- 
pity, and showed the full splendour of her motherhood in 
one supreme act of oblation, wiped out the figure of the 
unrepentant Magdalen. 

“Oh, I’ve been such a fool,” cried Jessica. “Last night 
I begged him ‘over and over again to say he believed and 
trusted me. I couldn’t help it. I’d have held my tongue 
if I wasn’t such a fool.” 

Poor Jessica! 

Well! She had said all she had come to say. Now she 
was at liberty to go. 

“You won’t forget the letter?” 

“I’d rather not—far—far—rather not-” 

And then, very earnestly she appealed to the hesitating 
Margaret. 

“I don’t want to see him again! I’m afraid of what I 
might read in his eyes. When I caught sight of his face 
this morning I could have screamed. I didn’t, of course, I 
smiled to show how happy we were together and he—tor- 



WHIRLWIND 


449 


tured his lips to smile back. He proposes we shall go 
away together. If we did that I should be living on the 
edge of a precipice, in constant dread of slipping over. 
Then I’d forgotten till we met again how old he is. He 
must find out.” 

And this time Margaret did not turn radiantly to An- 
trobus. She felt a certain admiration for the dignity and 
simplicity of this splendid sinner, and to speak a word of 
sympathy would be insulting. 

So Jessica, even when she had lost all she had striven 
for, when she was in very truth an outcast, and only 
where she was on sufferance, alone, friendless, loveless, 
yet was she not to be pitied, for there was something very 
fine about her. 

Then Desmond asked her plans, and wanted to know 
what she finally decided to do. 

But Jessica had decided nothing, except to leave Ford- 
combe before Aylmer knew. 

“You see, I’m not a repentant Magdalen, only one who’s 
lost her game.” 

“Then—I can do nothing?” 

“I’m afraid not, Desmond. I couldn’t live and see his 
confidence and love gradually weakening. Then he’d 
watch, and ‘guard’ me.” Then she turned to Margaret 
again: “And, we’ve forgotten your niece.” 

“I don’t think we need talk of her,” said Desmond a 
little coldly. 

Jessica smiled. 

“As hard as ever, Desmond?” And then turning to 
Margaret added: “And you? I wonder if you two are 
so much better than I? Suppose one of your, shall I 
say screws, the least bit in the world tightened up, and 
what might either of you become ?” 


WHIRLWIND 


45° 

And neither of them could find a suitable reply at the 
moment, and all Margaret said was : 

“Aylmer shall have his letter.” 

And Jessica looked at her and understood. Then all 
the mother rose within her and, with all the mother s 
jealous hunger for the darling only child she cried: I 
want him to be happy!” And then again she cried: “Oh! 
But I want so badly he should ibe happy.” 

And the cry went straight to the heart of her hearers. 

“If he came with me, in time, as years went on, he’d 
begin to wonder: ‘Was it all quite worth while?’ He 
couldn’t help it. Always there’d be we two. The girl 
he loves and the woman, who’s only his mother, to be 
weighed in the balance, and, as time passed, / should 
count for less and less. He’d hardly know when he first 
began to wonder: ‘Was it all quite worth while?’ But I 
should know. That’s the tragedy of motherhood, to love 
our sons so wildly, and one day to find it’s not in nature 
they should give us that greater love reserved for some 
other woman. I want him to be happy.” 

That was her only thought; the key to her every ac¬ 
tion. And to gain that end she would proclaim her own 
infamy, forfeit his love and what she perhaps valued 
more, his respect, she would stand forth naked to his cen¬ 
sure, she would hide nothing but admit everything because 
she wanted “so badly that he should be happy.” Only she 
asked not to witness her own degradation. 

For a second she stood wrapt in the thought of her 
boy’s happiness and her face shone with the glory of her 
sacrifice, as though it had been the face of an angel. 

Then she looked at Margaret and asked very simply: 

“Were you in my place could you do for your boy 
what I am doing for mine ?” 


WHIRLWIND 


45i 


And Margaret being a very truthful person, barely 
hesitated before replying: 

“No! I couldn't do it.” 

I thought not. After all, I’m made of stronger stuff.” 

Then she looked from the woman to the man, and back 
again to the woman. 

“Somehow,” she said, “I’m rather glad of that.” 

“And I can do nothing?” cried Margaret. 

‘Nothing,” answered Jessica, “I can’t become religious 
to order.” And then she saw that Margaret really wished 
to be helpful and understood, if only a little. 

“That was horrid of me. You mean to be kind.” 

And so a little seed was sown that could, however, 
never grow very much. Yet these two respected one an¬ 
other, I think, though they must ever be poles apart. 

Jessica looked again at Desmond, and then once more 
to Margaret. The humour of the situation pleased her. 
(And say what you will, tragedy is but the shadow of 
humour.) After all, she had not been so very badly 
beaten. 

“Good-bye.” 

But it was not quite that yet. There was another or¬ 
deal before her, one she had sought to escape, and for 
which she was utterly unprepared. Just as she moved to 
leave the room she found herself face to face with her 
son. 

He had come, as he had said he would, to say good-bye. 
It was an ordeal, but one he had to pass, only he had not 
expected to meet his mother, or his father, and he was 
face to face with both. 

“I came to say good-bye,” the boy said. “You’ve been 
tremendously good to me, Miss Dalison, ever since we 
met, far too good. My mother and I are going away. 


452 


WHIRLWIND 


She’s probably told you?” It was hard for him. He 
didn’t know what to say or do, and felt terribly young 
and inexperienced. All he fully realised was that he 
could not endure to look at either his father or his mother. 

‘‘Would you say good-bye for me to Mr. Dalison—and 
—and—and will you tell Katie, please, I shall always— 
always-” 

But some words will not be spoken. Aylmer had to 
■bite his lip hard, and look up quickly. “I can never forget 

this house and all the kindness of it, never-” he added 

huskily. 

And then it was that Jessica was made to know how 
thoroughly she had wrecked her boy’s life. For all her 
sin she received full justice at that moment. 

And Desmond said: “Have you no word for me? 
Not even good-bye?” 

But Aylmer did not answer; neither did he look at his 
father, but stood quite still, his eyes upon the ground. 

And then Jessica did a very fine thing. She reminded 
Aylmer that his father was speaking, and wouldn’t he 
answer? And she added that she would go alone, she 
wanted him to stay. And maybe Aylmer wondered at 
the extraordinary gentleness, and the sweetness of the 
voice that seemed, were it possible, to belong to someone 
of another world; and perhaps that was why he looked 
up suddenly at her. But why did he look away again so 
quickly? What had he read in his mother’s face? 

“We—we—had better go, I think,” he muttered. 

But Jessica was quite determined to go alone. 

“Dear, you cannot go with me.” 

For in the lad’s eyes she had seen the look of that 
morning, and she was afraid. 

“Dear, look at me! Dear! you love and trust me?” 




WHIRLWIND 


453 


“Why do you ask? You’ve asked that so often.” 
Aylmer spoke almost impatiently. “Why shouldn’t I be¬ 
lieve in you ? Don’t ask any more,” the boy commanded, 
“it maddens me.” 

And then Jessica understood, yet had to be convinced. 
And when she had looked a little while in silence, she went 
to him and very tenderly put her hand upon his shoulder, 
and turned him so that she might look into his eyes. And 
so, for one instant, their eyes met. 

Then Aylmer hid his face quickly in his hands and 
cried “Mother!” 

And that was all. And Jessica’s lips formed the word 
she could not speak—“Good-bye.” 

“I’ll follow directly.” 

“Very well! Very well!” 

She had nothing more to say, and yet she did not go. 
And then she said: 

“Boy—kiss me!” 

And very kindly he turned to her, very kindly and 
gently indeed, but without any emotion, hardly with 
affection. And his mother remembered the warm love 
of yesterday. She kissed him solemnly, very slowly and 
quietly. 

Thus she took her sacrament of farewell, and, without 
a look, a word, a touch, groped her way towards the door. 

She barely knew that Margaret hovered full of 
sympathy and pity; barely knew she passed out of the 
room, and out across the shady hall, but she noticed the 
pungent smell of the wood ashes; and the sunshine in the 
forecourt struck her as something harsh. Then on she 
went, out into the bright and happy world. 

On she went, seeing nothing, only knowing she must 
get away. 


454 


WHIRLWIND 


She crossed the road and went by a path that led 
through the fields; on she went, a finished, middle-aged 
woman, who showed every day of her years. No one 
would have looked at her twice now. She was only a 
woman of about forty, rather youthfully dressed perhaps; 
a little bent, her one claim to beauty a pair of haggard 
eyes that must have been lovely once. 

On she went, across the fields, and over on to a certain 
little wooden bridge. There she paused. It was such a 
quiet, placid, contented stream that flowed below. It 
asked for nothing, it wanted nothing, but to continue its 
even happy way. 

How happy too, the cattle that stood knee deep to 
drink of that slow stream! And there were birds flying 
about and singing, and one sang, oh, so loudly, right up 
close to the sun. It was a very happy world, and she had 
no part in it. It was a world that might almost be called 
heaven, and yet she had no share in it. She must be then 
some spirit from another world. And now came little 
gay sounds from some farm, and close at hand the long- 
drawn intaking draught of the cattle. It was all very 
beautiful, very alien and had nothing whatever to do with 
her. 

Yet thoughts came to her, one behind the other, and 
why or how they came, who could tell? They were 
certainly not the thoughts you would expect her to have 
at such a moment. She was rather astonished and 
wondered why on earth she thought of Towchester, and 
her father, and her early life. Surely her mind had 
received some shock, that it was so utterly unable to 
control its thoughts? Then she remembered Desmond 
coming to study with her father. Dear! What a good- 
looking fellow he had been. She had married him, and 


WHIRLWIND 


455 


they had lived in some dreadful little rooms—in Batter¬ 
sea, wasn’t it? But what had all this to do with her? 
And how loudly that little bird sang right up close to the 
sun! And there had been a very kindly old gentleman 
whom she had called Cousin Hugh. Jessica remembered 
them all, even little Mrs. Tom was not forgotten. 

“I wonder what’s become of her?” thought Jessica. 

Cousin Hugh came into her mind again and again. 
Why was that? 

And, suddenly, she saw herself again as Mrs. Potiphar, 
carried round the room in triumph by the sculptor’s 
pupils. Good heavens! What a phantasmagoria! She 
wondered if the host of that night remembered that ball, 
or had any recollection of herself or her triumph on that 
occasion. 

Then the Toreador passed in review, and horrid lurid 
episodes. What a life she had led. What a vagabond 
she had been! What unmentionable scenes she had been 
through, and how curiously clean and peaceful was this 
quiet sunny English meadow. And what was she doing 
there herself? And how curiously her head was throb¬ 
bing. 

And suddenly, quite suddenly, she saw a little white 
house, altogether sweet, in a setting of roses, and honey¬ 
suckle, and other old-fashioned flowers meet for the 
setting of little white houses. 

And then as Jessica thought of the little white house, 
the throbbing in her head ceased and she found that tears 
were pouring down her cheeks. That had been a happy 
time, and, thank God, she had no shame in the re¬ 
membrance. She was glad she had not forgotten the 
little white house! Though it was all, oh, so long ago! 
and the darling incomparable master of it all! He too, 


456 


WHIRLWIND 


belonged to the long ago. He had become a boy, who, in 
turn had become a youth, and he, why, he was gone too, 
now, and she had absolutely nothing left to call her own. 
Nothing in the world except some very beautiful jewels, 
some costly frocks, some expensive furs, a car or two, 
a palace in Italy and plenty of money in the bank. And 
what did that all amount to? There was no one whose 
love she had, no one whose respect she could claim. She 
was utterly alone, and she would be alone all her days. 
No one to write to even, and no one to whose letters she 
might look forward. She had nothing and she was 
nothing. All the past, all her successes amounted to just 
that—nothing! 

And again she said it—“I am nothing! I am nothing! 
My God! Nothing!” 

Henceforth her life would flow on like the stream, 
monotonous, uneventful, with rather a muddy bottom. 

And the thought that came to her the night before when 
talking to her boy in the garden—the thought how “the 
world had grown old, that it was time she gave up the 
masquerade”—returned to her; only now it was a 
thousand times more insistent, and a million times more 
dominating. 

Well! She’d drunk the wine, only the dregs remained, 
better to fling them away before their taste grew too 
bitter in her mouth. 

And she had been right when proclaiming herself an 
“unrepentant Magdalen.” She repented nothing, for her¬ 
self, only grieved—with tears of blood—for the havoc to 
her boy’s happiness. 

But was there nothing she could do? Was she so 
utterly defeated? Was there no hope anywhere at all? 

And again the throbbing of her head beat out the 


WHIRLWIND 


457 


words, The world is old—old—old— The masquerade 
for you is done.” 

And then came another ghastly, unfaceable truth,— 
Aylmer knew. And she had lost his love, forfeited his 
regard. 

He would learn, and read, the lives of other women— 
horribly akin to hers; then would he wonder (how could 
he help it?) if she too had been as wanton—or—perhaps 
worse! God! Impossible to live with that before her! 
Live! Why should she live? What had she to live for? 
The reason for her life had snapped—the use for her 
broken—better—oh! far better obey the decree, “The 
masquerade for you is done.” 

Yes! Maybe one thing yet remained for her to do,— 
and, that done, somewhere would be peace, and a place 
where she might start again. Surely that was the 
solution? Desmond had said “her time had come to 
pay”; well—so be it—if thus she bought Aylmer’s happi¬ 
ness. 

So far as she could tell—her head was throbbing so it 
was hard to think—one remaining act called for its fulfil¬ 
ment—and called more vehemently with every passing 
moment. 

Arid she held out her arms in welcome—rejoicing she 
had yet this thing to do—this last supreme sacrifice that 
she—and only she—could offer on the altar of Aylmer’s 
happiness. 

“I want him to be happy.” 

Oh but it was good! So very good! Thus would she 
put the cornerstone to her motherhood—and carry out 
her mother love to its full accomplishment. 

And he would be pitiful. Yes! God bless him—she 
felt secure of that. 


458 


WHIRLWIND 


“Perhaps he’ll love me again—when he’s learnt to 
pity.” 

Jessica had a fleeting vision of cool, green waters, of 
cows in a meadow drinking leisurely, of a little white 
house, and the song of a little bird that sang loudly close 
to the sun, all these were inextricably muddled up, and 
then- 



XXXVII 


When Desmond, Aylmer and Margaret were alone, it 
was Aylmer who broke the silence. 

“Do you know why she wanted me to stay?” 

“She left a letter for you,” answered Margaret. And 
when Aylmer had read it, the paper slipped from his 
hands and he stood quite still as one struck suddenly 
blind and seeing nothing. 

Then Margaret picked it up and, having read it, passed 
it to Desmond, whispering: 

“Go to him.” And then she left the father and son 
together. 

And this was all that Jessica had written. 

“Every word your father said last night is perfectly 
true.” 

In those words she accepted and renounced everything. 

“When I began to think, I couldn’t believe it of you. I 
just couldn’t,” said Aylmer brokenly. “Then she kept on 
asking ‘Did I believe her?’ so questioningly, so patheti¬ 
cally. It was ghastly.” 

“I couldn’t speak to you just now. I couldn’t trust 
myself. I’d to remember—hard—what I am to her. I 
hoped, if I were with her, that perhaps-” 

And just then Fell came rushing up to the window, and 
made signs to Desmond to go to him. 

“What is it ? What has happened ?” he asked. 


459 



460 


WHIRLWIND 


And Fell answered in a frightened, croaking whisper. 

“I saw it—the bridge. You know—the little wooden 
bridge. She was right in the middle, leaning over. Two 
men passing shouted, she turned and then, quite suddenly, 
she—she ” 

But something had reached Aylmer. 

“What do you mean?” he cried. 

“You mustn’t, you mustn’t!” Fell shouted, and would 
have held Aylmer forcibly, but the boy knew something 
terrible had to be met. 

“Let me go! Fell!” 

And as Aylmer rushed towards the window, his father 
stayed him. 

“Aylmer!” 

“Father!” 

And the two went together till they came to where 
three or four men stood by the river bank with a long, 
black, draggled, dripping something on the ground amidst 
them. 

And Fell alone in the room that looked strange with 
its flowers and pretty things and sunshine streaming in, 
wondered “Did she know ? Did she know ?” 


The End 



Ji Selection from the 
Catalogue of 

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 

* 


Complete Catalogues sent 
on application 






FICTION OF DISTINCTION 


The Fir and the Palm By Elizabeth Bibesco 

Princess Bibesco, whose short stories placed her in the small and 
select group of modem writers who produce literature, shows in her 
first novel the same intimate perception of character that made them 
notable. 

The Safety Pin By J. S. Fletcher 

Once again the leader of present-day writers of mystery stories 
contrives a situation which defies solution, with a plot held firmly 
together by nothing more mysterious than a safety pin. 

Men of Earth By Bernice Brown 

In this striking collection of stories Miss Brown shows a definite ad¬ 
vance over her earlier work, with a ruggedness and strength of con¬ 
ception that are as unusual as they are inspiriting. 

Without Gloves By James B. Hendryx 

A story of the lumber camps in which a young man, who failed in the 
city, finds himself and makes good—in love and in the squared circle. 

Judd & Judd By Nalbro Bartley 

The author, who is well known for her intimate pictures of American 
life, tells of the efforts of a man and a woman to adjust fairly the 
privileges and responsibilities of marriage. 

Dan Barry’s Daughter By Max Brand 

The romance of Joan, daughter of “ Whistling Dan M Barry, who 
had in her blood the same call of the wild that made the stories of 
her father so unique in Western fiction. 

The Joyous Adventurer By Ada Barnett 

The tale of a delightfully unconventional professor and the extra¬ 
ordinary infant he found in a wood. Coppertop, of mysterious 
parentage, has many and varied adventures, and finally gets into 
serious trouble—and love. 


New York 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 


London 







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